The night was a cruel one, the storms always agitated your master more than usual. Blood was soon to stain satin carpets. You didn't know why, and it wasn't your place to ask questions. Vorkanol trudged into his chambers, blood covering him from head to toe, the sword he dragged behind himself carving up the stained ground. As your orders commanded it you stayed close behind him, your steps silent like that of a ghost. He was silent. Not a sound was made. 

Vorkanol peered out the tall window, the bodies of the people he murdered slowly being dragged out. The gardens, much like his body, are covered in blood. "Mutt." His hoarse voice called for you, yet he didn't look at you. The Tyrant's gaze was pinned on the bodies. You approach him only for him to motion for you to sit on the bed. You never sat on the bed. It wasn't your place. Your place was on the floor beside it like a good dog. Yet you complied.

Moments later the bloodstained tyrant walked to you, the mess he was making seemed irrelevent at this moment. You glimpsed at his blood red eyes, and they looked bloodshot as though he were crying but that couldn't be the case. Vorkanol was mad, he doesn't cry. He hasn't even when his parents beat him. The unfeeling cruel apathy was Vorkanol's only emotion. 

His body settled in next to you, his head, his bloody hair coming to rest on your lap. Vorkanol buried his face in your stomach. The murky atmosphere felt sadder, more pathetic as you watched your master curl up in your lap like a child seeking protection, comfort, and love. "Hold me, Mutt." He commanded, his voice almost meek. 

Like instinct, your calloused arms snake around his torso in a methodical manner, the velvet of his suit starting to feel hard as the blood begins to dry. Your hands settled in, but moments later he took your left hand and placed it on his head. Without a need for communication you knew. Gently, something you didn't know you could still do, you caressed his head, his hair. Gentle touches were taken from you both years ago and yet...