Chapter Text
Hanta
“This is the best of all my slaves, my Lord. You may come closer to look and touch, if you wish. Almost pure-blooded Indian. A native. You'll be able to see the quality. Look here. Look at the teeth.”
Once he had settled on the floor, distracted by the patterns on the tiles, the master grabbed his jaw and forced his mouth open so the man could inspect it more closely.
He didn’t. And Hanta found that completely reasonable.
While many men were fascinated by his teeth, Baron Todoroki seemed to be a much harder man to impress—or simply too dense to be convinced.
“He's young,” he said instead, after a while, without much preamble.
His master chuckled melodically, and whatever expression he’d made, Hanta couldn’t see it to know how to react.
Though his master was a jovial man, he had never been particularly kind to any of his slaves. He might have been condescending at times, thanks to Hanta’s natural gift of not being a nuisance, but that didn't make him pleasant. He had a heavy, unforgiving hand. When he punished, the pain stayed for weeks afterward.
“Of course, I have older slaves, but allow me to say that this one will be as useful as five of the ones I sold you before. This one is the needle in the haystack. I didn’t put him up for sale until he turned eighteen to ensure he was worth the price. I’ve had offers pouring in, of course. But I wanted to ask you first, since I heard you’re looking for someone to care for your horses. The last one probably wasn’t very effective, I imagine.”
“The last one died. He was effective, and he died that way. I'm not looking for anything different.”
“And you’ll find that here! This boy has a gift with animals! You won’t remember that old slave once this one starts working!”
He wasn't impressed.
“Fifty talons, you said? You’re selling me a child for the price of an experienced slave.”
“He’s the best investment you’ll make for your estate, sir.”
Then the master released his jaw and moved his hand directly to his hair, tugging it so his face would be visible and the man could look at him. Hanta, who wasn’t allowed to make eye contact with anyone, tilted his head to the side to look at the far end of the room, where a tall window revealed the estate gardens.
They were beautiful.
Probably hard to keep clean, but beautiful.
Hanta wouldn’t mind seeing them up close from time to time.
“You must be very sure of yourself to say things like that.”
“I would never dare lie to you, my lord.”
Baron Todoroki, old and heavyset, took a few tentative steps around him, dragging his boots as he approached, then slowly took Hanta’s arm.
“Isn’t he too thin?”
“Indians are naturally thin. That’s why they’re quicker,” his master responded instantly, as the other buyers had asked the same question—each and every one of them.
“This one, sir, is a southern Indian. He was taken straight from the new colonies in America. He’s been domesticated by Europeans his whole life to be sold as a plantation worker. Still, he can handle any task you require. He’s the hardest worker of all my slaves, sir.”
And in an act of supposed kindness, the master released his hair, letting his head fall, and gave him a couple of pats on the head.
“It almost hurts to sell him.”
Almost.
But Hanta didn’t really care. His only friends had been sold recently, and the tougher slaves in the village hadn’t treated him kindly.
Wherever they sent him, Hanta would find a way to live.
But being sold to the Todoroki family wasn’t the dream of any slave.
“They’re all crazy,” he’d heard. “No one ever hears from the slaves who go to their estate.”
Lord Enji Todoroki looked at him a moment longer before pulling his arm even further and sniffing his wrist, as many had done before—but never any fine gentleman.
The Todorokis had to be insane.
The man lingered there before nodding to the master and letting go.
“Why can’t I smell anything on him?”
“He’s useful in every way, sir,” the master replied as if rehearsed. “He hasn’t presented. And at his age, he likely never will. One of those anomalies that are becoming more common.”
“If he’s an anomaly, that’s not exactly a benefit.”
“Oh, but it is. I speak from experience,” the master chuckled lightly, patting his head again.
“There’s no way this one’s an Alpha, sir. Indians may be thin, but no Alpha could be as small as this boy. He’s not rebellious in any way. The ideal slave. And since he’s not an Alpha, you won’t have to subdue him to get obedience.”
Then the pat turned into a rough caress.
“And in fact, my lord, he could never be an Omega either! Just look at him! As tall as a soldier, with not a single virtue in his body. No Omega could handle the work this one does. Since he’s not an Omega, he won’t be a burden, right?”
Of all the descriptions the master gave, the lord latched onto only one thing:
“A burden, you say?”
“You know it yourself. Omegas are hardly useful for work. If you need someone to cook and warm your bed while the lady’s away, I can find one for you, sir. But it’s a blessing this one isn’t an Omega. There’s no way! Not even the most well-trained Omega is as gifted as this slave right here!”
Lord Todoroki clearly didn’t appreciate something the master said, because even without the instincts typical of Alphas or Omegas, the atmosphere tensed—and when Hanta dared to look up, the haughty man wore the ugliest expression he’d ever seen on a human face.
It scared Hanta.
He looked like someone who punished harshly anything he didn’t find acceptable. Someone who would beat Hanta cruelly with that left arm of his, which looked thick enough to match both of Hanta’s legs together.
If this man seemed ready to hit someone as fine as the master, Hanta didn’t want to imagine what he did to his slaves.
A bad temper meant long beatings.
The Todoroki family was terrifying.
They weren’t people you wanted to anger.
This man must care deeply for his Omega to be upset by such a small insult—or perhaps one of his children was an Omega.
Much was said about Lord Todoroki’s children, but little was known, and they were rarely seen.
Maybe one of them was married, and the master had just insulted his son-in-law.
Maybe he simply didn’t tolerate unwarranted insults.
“I think you and I have different definitions of the word burden,” he said flatly.
The master, being the cunning man he was, recovered quickly—likely after shitting his pants.
“You won’t need to get him a heat companion, sir. That’s what I meant. He’ll save you a lot of money. I didn’t mean—”
“Untie the boy,” Lord Todoroki interrupted, just as Hanta began to think they might go back to the village and offer him to the next bidder—or at least, that’s what he hoped.
“I’ll give you forty-five talons for him and overlook your offense to my house.”
Hanta did something for himself, finally.
He lifted his head to glance at the master out of the corner of his eye, just to see what he would say.
He almost met Hanta’s gaze, catching his most desperate plea as he silently begged not to be left there.
The master gaped, uncertain at first, but then grabbed the back of Hanta’s neck, frowned, and snorted.
“Five talons to preserve my honor, sir?”
“That’s right. Choose wisely.”
He didn’t have to think long. He looked at Hanta one last time, unsatisfied but not moved by his fear either.
The master seemed furious enough to take it out on him, but still—Hanta would rather go with him.
Not that Hanta’s thoughts mattered. The deal was made anyway.
“There are papers to sign, sir.”
And he grabbed the rope that tied Hanta’s arms—pointless, since Hanta was reasonable and wouldn’t try to escape. He untied him just as Lord Todoroki had ordered.
“You may do with him as you wish while we talk.”
Oh, so it was that easy.
That’s how life changed, then.
Lord Todoroki and the master shook hands for the first time and pretended Hanta wasn’t still kneeling on the floor.
Such was the world of Alphas.
“MOE!” Lord Todoroki suddenly shouted. He did so with such force that Hanta trembled even while kneeling, as did the rest of the house.
“MOE! COME HERE!”
As the master adjusted his glove and wiped it with little care, a small woman came running through the doors beside the window.
From the way she moved so nervously, with her hands clasped in front of her, he could tell she was a slave like him.
Still, this Moe had a smile on her face and looked directly at Lord Todoroki, eager for orders.
“Yes, my lord?”
“This boy,” the lord said, pointing to Hanta, who shrank even further.
“Feed him. Give him water. Let him look around. Make sure he’s ready for tomorrow.”
“Of course, my lord,” the woman nodded, then crouched and knelt beside Hanta, patting his cheek.
Hanta stayed as still as he could.
He knew the master was gone once the sound of his boots and Lord Todoroki’s faded into the hallway.
He didn’t want to move.
He hadn’t eaten well in days, and his neck hurt.
And of course—he had just been sold.
Hanta was the kind of person who needed time to process things.
The woman, who didn’t know him at all, didn’t understand that.
“Up,” she said. She was brusque like no woman had ever been with him.
“Up, boy. We need to clean you. I don’t have time to waste.”
Hanta didn’t really mind being sold, but he’d heard a lot about the Todorokis.
It was only natural that poor devils like him sweated fear when faced with a whole new world ruled by them.
But Hanta would find a way to live.
As was natural, slaves slept away from the masters, but he hadn’t expected them to have their own little houses hidden across the vast estate.
In his homeland, Hanta had slept on sacks filled with cut straw, wrapped in blankets the Europeans handed out to all the mansion children. In the master's house, Hanta slept on the kitchen floor to warm up by the oven, until he grew too big for the corner and had to stretch out over the horse cots.
In Lord Todoroki’s house, Hanta saw his first bed at eighteen.
“For me?” he asked again. The woman sighed and scratched her head lazily.
Hanta didn’t care if he sounded dense.
He admired, like a child, the small futon lined with worn sheets and a single pillow.
His bed was stacked beside two others, with small trunks and belongings from the other slaves around it.
But that bed was his now.
His first.
“You’re slow, boy.”
Hanta could’ve laughed, but he was afraid he’d throw up all the food he stuffed himself with when they told him he could eat whatever he wanted from the kitchen.
“Bless this hell,” he said, and jumped onto the bed as fast as he could.
The woman, Moe, grumbled and said something Hanta didn’t catch as he wrapped himself in the clean sheets.
A tiny piece of heaven in this ugly hell.
“If I must die here, let this be my coffin,” he declared solemnly.
“We rise early here—before the sun. You’ll work on the estate, with the horses. So you won’t enter the house. Your place is in the stables. Don’t approach the house or the masters unless they request it.”
Ah, goodbye to that wonderful window.
“The master walks around the estate twice a day to supervise. Don’t be lazy if you don’t want trouble with him. The lady stays at home most of the time or goes to the market. The young masters Natsuo, Fuyumi, and Shoto ride horses at least twice a week. Don’t speak to any of them.”
Hanta nods, still not standing up. However, the girl stays there, watching him anxiously. —How can you understand me?
“I may not be very smart, but I can hear very well. I can also read a little. My old masters taught me.”
“You’re not from here.”
“No. I’m not.”
“How can you understand me with that strange face of yours, then?”
“Believe me when I say there are faces just like mine on the other side of the planet. I’m just a very common person.”
“You’re not common here” she says and, carefully, gives him a piece of advice “Stick to speaking our language and stay unnoticed by the masters. The eldest son—He will definitely be very cruel if he sees you.”
Hanta wisely accepts the advice and ends up lying down “They might even mistake me for a horse. Don’t worry.”
However, the work here is indeed hard.
Harder than the vast lands of the old master.
Hanta has to wake up very early in the morning. He has to groom the master’s horse before he appears. Then he has to clean the stable muck, oil the carriages, and fill the feeders. He has to carry the large sacks of food from the warehouses to the wooden platforms; crossing the whole estate, getting his skin burnt more. Back and forth, at least three times (because that’s how it’s done here), and if he runs into the farmhands, he must take the longer path to avoid them pestering him (because those poor devils enjoy laughing at those even more unfortunate than they are, apparently). He also has to brush the horses, wash them, polish their saddles, scare away the dogs when they come to bother, and sleep with them when there’s noise beyond the prairie.
There is no one who wants to be his friend here.
There is no one who wants to talk to Hanta.
The only ones who speak to him are the children of the farmhands. Stuffing themselves in the kitchens, waiting with their bowls for the Omegas to serve them food. Eating at tables and not on the floor, like they do. Probably thinking they’re kings because of it. Peeking their heads into the warehouses and watching Hanta sitting on the sacks, eating. Or watching him toss another bag over his shoulder before setting off to walk.
“Lizard” they call him.
Hanta thinks there must be better ways to annoy him.
They find a better way, in fact:
“Lizard. Prepare a horse.”
“Huh?”
“We heard the young master is coming to ride. That white one over there is his horse. Hurry up.”
But in the week he’s been there, no young master has come to ride.
Hanta looks at the farmhand. Letting the bag fall to the ground next to the bucket of muck.
Tempted to throw it at him.
Wondering what would happen if he did.
However, he ends up muttering: “Moe must come herself to tell me.”
“Have you ever seen young master Shoto angry, boy?”
“I haven’t had the fortune of seeing his face, sir.”
“And pray he don’t see yours.” And when he sees that Hanta doesn’t move, he whistles. “What an idiot this one is. You want him to punish you, boy?”
“No—”
“Get his horse ready, go on.”
There are no horses as beautiful as those in these lands. They’re massive. Stately. The way they’re gentle with Hanta’s touch. Very different, it seems, from the fury of their owners. Hanta has heard them shout, argue, and even fight from the slave cabins. Sometimes, the master goes out and takes it out on one of them. Hanta has been lucky to go unnoticed during these five days.
So, he prepares the horse for when the pests disappear.
Hanta wets his hands again and again. Adjusts the saddle. Brushes. And...
“Young master Shoto! Wait, please! Wait!”
“I didn’t ask for company. Tell the gatekeeper to open the gates. I’m leaving—”
“Young master! You know very well your father will—”
Hanta pulls on the reins when the horse moves, head bowed, as he was taught, and waits for the footsteps to come.
“Young master!”
“Have you checked Tunkin’s front hooves?” And Hanta notices a hole in his boot as he looks at it. Damn. “Is this boy deaf?”
“Hanta!”
“Huh?” He lifts his head.
Young master Shoto is like his father.
Not as big.
Not as ugly.
Alpha. Red. Angry. Yes.
However, his face is deformed on one side by a burn so unpleasant to look at that Hanta grimaces with his lips.
He briefly remembers one of his only friends who burned his arm by playing too close to the cook’s boiler. He remembers how he screamed and cried for weeks. How he couldn’t tolerate the pain and the raw flesh.
He wonders if young master Shoto screamed like that.
That’s the first thing he wonders.
And then he remembers who he is. He mustn’t look anyone in the face, so he looks at his shoes. Nice, stitched, and polished. A beautiful craft next to Hanta’s worn-out boots.
Something ugly and beautiful.
Ah, just like his face.
“Is he deaf?”
“No—Hanta, answer him—”
He bets someone in that house did that to him. They’re all mad, after all.
“You.”
“Huh?” He doesn’t lift his head. “Oh—No—Young master—I’m not deaf. I fixed the crack yesterday, young master—”
And young master Shoto looks at him. It’s so terrifying that Hanta doesn’t know whether to retreat or stay there. And then he says: “And this?” and Moe says something else, but young master Shoto cares little. He gets on the horse and starts to ride. “Tell my father I’ll see him tonight.”
“Wait! Wait, young master—!”
Hanta stays still as the horse gallops out of the gates, leaving a cloud of dust behind. Mon, almost about to cry, gives him a burning look.
“Who told you to get his horse ready?!”
“What—The master—The little man who collects the straw—the farmhand.”
“Didn’t you notice?! Young master Shoto is forbidden to leave! You were supposed to hide the horse, not prepare it for him!”
“But—What if he punished me?”
“Better that he beats you than the master does it to all of us! And you’ll take the responsibility!”
“Me?—”
“Would you rather be whipped alone or would you prefer we all get whipped?”
Hanta feels a knot in his stomach. He looks in the direction where young master Shoto has gone.
And he hates him. Oh, my God. He hates him so much.
All of them. All those damn Todorokis.
You’ll get used to it.
However, the master returns furious that night. He hears him yelling, breaking something, and Hanta waits there, sitting with the horses. Where he belongs. Where the master is going to find him, grab him by the arm, and, with Moe following them, begging him to forgive him, Hanta sees in the distance that horrible post that all the masters have and all the slaves look at with resentment.
And for a moment, he thinks about what could have been or what could be.
He thinks about getting on a ship, an elegant one. He thinks about wearing one of those fine hats. He thinks about crossing the sea and reaching his land. So far. So sweet. So charming. Away from masters. Away from coins. Away from Todorokis or the smell of shit.