standsonhigh | There's nothing here but what here's mine.

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psl: barty

There's nothing here but what here's mine.

This wasn't, exactly, how he had planned his return. He had expected to be on home turf, a place he understood and wanted to be. Surrounded by worshippers and already plotting. Not here with some strange man using the power he gave specifically to his followers to bring him back. The books of Saxon weren't meant to be public knowledge, they were his private notes, and yet this man decided to drag him into a world he didn't want to be in.

The Master always had a funny feeling that magic wasn't something he should of ever tried to toy with because as it stood, he didn't like where this was going. It defied the logic he knew.

Voldemort was a strange creature, a very unpleasant one at that. He looked sickly and his eyes were red like an albino. Still, he didn't say much on it, he'd looked worse himself and damages were just a sign of ambition and desire. It always took everything out of you, especially with humans.

The drums were raging in his head as he followed Voldemort into this meeting he'd decided to attend. He'd only been back a few days and already he seemed to of captured the imagination of this tiny little creature who was all but eager to introduce him.

An ancient ruler from another reality must of been interesting.

He didn't walk behind Voldemort, he kept in step, not willing to seem a lesser. Hey, the dark lord brought him here. If he was going to play with this merry band of psychopaths, he wanted to seem equal.

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Barty was still sobbing, choking on his own tears, eyes dull as he looked up at the Master, his body as broken down to the ground as he could get the way he was cuffed. He was still in pain, everything hurt, even thinking about moving, and he was sure his jaw had to be broken, shredded, at least that's how it felt. He almost, almost called out to the Master's retreating back, but in the end he was just too close to unconsciousness and he passed out instead, feverish and broken.

When the Master next came back, it had been a day and he was ready to knock this up a gear. As he walked into the room, he flipped on the light and didn't bother with his usual cheery grin. Instead, he simply stood at the bottom and waited for Barty to give him his attention.

"Well, I can't say I didn't try with you. I really did. And you just wouldn't play," the Master lamented, sighing loudly as he leaned against the wall, keeping a nice distance between them. "I think it's best we both call it a day, don't you? I have a lot to do and I can't be spending hours at a time down here with someone too stupid to simply ask for food or water, let alone forgiveness."

With a tut, he crossed his arms and resisted the urge to smirk. "I do wish we could of had a chance together, we could of done wonderful things. But, well, it's over. I called your old friends to come fetch you. You might remember them. The Dementors? I'm sure they'll find you more interesting than I."

It took Barty a while to stir to awareness, because holding on to consciousness had become a chore. Yet once he did, he blinked his bleary eyes open, focused them on the Master and tried to make sense of his words. Even before the mention of Dementors he was shaking his head in denial, moving his lips to form words that were an effort to get out.

"Please," he managed finally, then pushed himself up as much as he could, at least sitting somewhat upright as he continued his plight, "Please, Master. no." He swallowed, shivering in his damp clothes, his body heated only from fever and nothing else. "Please. Anything. I'll do anything."

"You could of done that before I summoned them, now it'd be rude not to let them come, don't you think?" the Master pointed out, though he'd done no such thing. Of course he hadn't brought them to his home, he just knew that Barty would be desperate and tired enough to believe him. Poor bastard was barely with it and it was clear he was starting to flag under all the pain and pressure, the constant awful loneliness.

Pushing himself away from the wall, he walked closer to Barty and crouched down in front of him, mockingly running his fingers through Barty's damp hair in a condescending manner. Just to provoke him, to see if he lashed out and snark or continued to give in.

"You're just saying this," the Master tried to ignore how horribly warm and clammy Barty's skin was as he moved his hand down the man's face in a harsh mimic of affection, pretending to be sincerely upset by all of this. He really did hate diseased and revolting humans, they were so unpleasant to be around. It's why he never visited the times before antibiotics. "How can I be sure I should believe you?"

"No, no..." Just that one syllable muttered in desperate denial, eyes wide and glassy and pleading, although for a moment, just a moment, defiance did rise on his face when he was touched quite so condescendingly. Immediately after though, he leaned into the touch instead though, even his feverishly confused mind trying to think of words his Master would want to hear.

"Please, Master. I'll do what you say, what you want." He tried moving again, tried to get closer to him. There were only so many ways to show commitment when every word and every move hurt, but he tried, he definitely tried. "I was wrong. Forgive me."

Well, he was begging. He supposed that was a start, something he could work with. This was probably the closest he could get to actually having the man beg him but one could always aim higher. He had plenty of time yet to train him and break him in. With his best reluctant sigh, he pulled away and got to his feet, pretending to debate over what was done next.

"Hmm, see, this is a hard one. I want to believe you but I don't know," Finally, he clicked his fingers and smiled at Barty, like he'd had a break through. "I'll call them off, make them retreat. For now. But you have a few days to prove to me what a good boy you can be. And if you fail, I'll wash my hands of you."

It'd be worse this time, going back to the Dementors and Azkaban. He'd have no Voldemort to root for, no one to save him and no way to ever get out.

Barty stared at the Master, but understanding was only barely dawning. Had he been forgiven? He wasn't certain, but he knew he was still scared, or the closest he could remember getting to it. He tried to rub his head against the Master's hand, tried to reach him as much as he could, looking up at his face for signs of what he should do. His usually keen mind was clouded from exhaustion, pain and sickness, but he knew that he had to focus on the Master, he knew that much.

"What do you want, Master?" He paused, frowning for a moment before adding, "My Master."

Time for a test, just to gauge what the man was willing to do. Picking up the discarded chocolate bar from before, he unwrapped it and offered it out with a curious expression. Would Barty stoop to this level of condescension and actually eat what his Master told him to eat? After all, he mustn't of eaten in nearly five days now and that wouldn't bode overly well for him if he'd finally gotten a loyal servant then lost him to death.

"Eat," the Master said simply, waiting for the snivelling moron to open his mouth so he could ram it in. He didn't intend to help him with it, he'd find a way to cope. The Master had to contemplate how to regain this one's health a little. Maybe one of the 'death eater' in his service could help him?

He was sick, he was beyond tired and his head hurt. Barty didn't have a lot of defiance left in him, especially not given how hungry he was. His jaw hurt, throbbed with pain actually, but he talked himself into opening his mouth anyway, just a little, just enough. He was still aware of how humiliating this was, but whatever it would take. He was ready now, or so he felt at the moment. He wet his lips with his tongue and coughed, which made his whole body cringe. There was a warning at the back of his mind, never quite shutting down. He was dying, wasn't he?

Once Barty had his mouth open enough, the Master shoved the food in, letting him get a good grip of it and make some headway getting it down himself. Eating was the last essential thing Barty had to do. The sooner he had food, the sooner the Master could start helping him. He held the chocolate firm, fascinated at how Barty had actually gone through with it, unsure how he felt about it. He didn't want him broken forever but it was a lovely moment as it stood. Was it wrong that he found the man's desperation and weakness such a turn on? Probably. But that had never stopped him before.

Barty couldn't really chew, but at least chocolate melted. He did manage to swallow some, slowly and feeling ridiculous for it. Gradually even through his fever-addled mind some semblance of shame did sink through and he felt his face heat up with it, but it wasn't as if he had any other option. Begging for better treatment, maybe. Begging for freedom.

But with his mouth occupied and the way his jaw protested, all he could do was turn puppy dog eyes up at the Master and hope.

It was a very slow process but once at least half of it was done with, the Master removed the bar and tossed it aside, clearly disgusted by the melting goo that was left behind on his hand from this little affair. He used his handkerchief to clean his hands then Barty's face, just to get some sense of presentableness back to the man. Once the handkerchief was discarded, he inspected Barty's poor damaged arm and took a gentle hold of it, being tender with it for the first time since he ended up in this basement. After a few moments of inspection, he made his move. His other hand went into his pocket to retrieve his screwdriver, tweaking the settings so, finally, the cuffs popped off.

Only for a moment, of course, he just wanted to see the damage in full. And given Barty's state, he was hardly capable of running away or fighting back. Still, he gave him a very firm look and pointed at him like one would a dog. "Stay."

Even with how gentle the Master was, Barty had a hard time entirely suppressing his whimpers. When the cuffs finally opened, he breathed a quiet sigh of relief, moving to rub his left wrist with the right hand, which was at least in a marginally better state. At the order, however, he abandoned the movement, ending up just kneeling on the ground, head leaned back so he could look up at the Master.

He so wanted it to be over. "Please," he tried again for good measure, reckoning that it at the very least couldn't hurt.

The Master raised an eyebrow in interest, not sure what Barty was begging for this time but he was pretty sure it was freedom. He would of offered it had he trusted him but Barty was intelligent, he was cunning and a good actor. The Master believed it was possible he was telling the truth but he hardly had enough evidence to let him loose to do whatever he wanted. Yet. He still had to learn who was boss. Making a fake sympathetic noise, he reached out and stroked Barty's hair.

"You didn't really think it could be this simple, did you?" the Master took the none damaged hand and cuffed it to the pipe, leaving the other arm free to relax and enjoy a little freedom. He could of done much worse to him but hey, he was feeling generous now. He'd gotten what he wanted on some levels. "Maybe another night down here, just to be sure. But don't you worry your silly little head, I'll soon get someone in who can fix that arm up."

It was probably a wise enough move, because while Barty might not have any thoughts of escape plans or the like right now, that might change later still. He held still when the Master cuffed him again, wondering if he could manage to pop his shoulder back into place against the wall. But the Master mentioned someone coming to fix him up and, well, that was definitely cause for hope.

"Thank you." He would be able to lie down like this and that alone seemed like heaven right now, battered as his body was. Broken as his mind was. "Don't leave for long."

Leaving Barty attached to that pipe, the Master got to his feet and gave his prisoner a bright grin. Oh he was learning fast, what a good boy he was. A few more weeks and he might actually be able to make him into the ideal servant. "I'll be as long as I need but I will try to spare more time for our little bonding sessions. And, just because you've been so good today, I'll even leave the light on this time."

Barty would enjoy staring at ... well, nothing. He didn't keep much down here that was entertaining. With no other words, he retreated up the stairs, determined to find someone who could fix an arm like Barty's. It took him a moment and several wizards volunteering but eventually he settled for a very easily brainwashed man who was not only skilled but adored him. Just what he needed Barty to see. His old allies had fallen into line, why couldn't he?

He decided to have the arm healed and some light work on the jaw. He still wanted it to hurt, he just wanted to give a little relief at best.

Somewhat healed, Barty felt some strength return, even some clarity. He was still exhausted, but at least he was also able to curl up on the ground against the wall and actually sleep somewhat restfully, which he sorely needed. It still wasn't comfortable, he was still in pain, but at least it was better than nothing.

When he woke again, he pulled his sleeve up, stared at the dark mark on his arm and noticed how it was already fading. Soon it would be nothing more but a tattoo, meaningless, when it had once been symbol for all he fought for in life. He rested his forehead against it when he drifted off again, lost in thoughts that barely made sense.

The Master took longer than he intended to return, it was nearly night time when he came to the basement, not exactly looking pleased. Nor overly well. He had gone a shade pale and his palm was digging into his skull to try and calm the noise that was currently stunning him. He didn't need to look to know where he was going, it wasn't really complicated, so instead he focused on trying to calm the noise as he moved.

He didn't know why it happened, it just did. Some days, he got unrelenting burst and he just couldn't think. He intentions had been to come down here and relieve some stress by lashing out at his new toy but as he stood there, looking at Barty, he just didn't have it in him to attack the poor bastard.

Instead, he dropped down to his knees in front of Barty and allowed himself a moment to pretend this man was the Doctor. That he could help him and would be willing to listen. Sleep was not possible tonight but maybe this would offer relief. A little delusion never hurt anyone.

"It hurts," the Master said simply, eyes clamped shut. "The noise in my head, it hurts."

Barty stirred when he first heard the Master's steps, staying silent as he turned to look at him. He did notice that something was wrong with him, so he frowned and watched, one hand still forced behind him but at least the other was free. He subtly pushed his sleeve down once the Master was in front of him, eyes shut, and he did listen.

Of course he remembered the drums, even only having heard them once. What he didn't know was what was expected of him and in his vulnerable position, that was enough to make him feel very uncertain. Still, he reached out, finally, put a hand on the Master's head and let the tips of his fingers comb through his hair.

It was strange, to have someone stroking his hair like he was an infant with a fever, trying to offer him some measure of comfort. He didn't quite know what to do in response, it was an odd one and he supposed Barty didn't have much of a clue what to do. He wasn't the Doctor and he never would be, he didn't understand the Master. Yet. On the Valiant, he would always sit with the Doctor in moments like this, all silence but the drums. It always made him feel better but he didn't understand why or how.

He always hoped the Doctor would of listened properly but he never had. Groaning as the noise bounced around his skull and made his ears ring horribly and his teeth rattle, he moved closer to Barty and grasped desperately to Barty's shoulders. Their personal space was practically non existent as he gently rested his forehead against Barty's. And then he opened the floodgates to his torment.

"It won't stop. It never stops. The drums, they hurt. Please just listen."

Barty's eyes were wide even before the Master forced the noise on him, just caught off-guard by the sudden proximity and the desperate edge to the Master's intensity. But he did catch onto it, as much as he could. This was important, very important. He had touched upon it before, when he'd forced himself into the Master's mind and now...

Now all his own thoughts stopped, drowned out by the drums. His head exploded with them, his world moved with them and he screamed, finally, he was sure he screamed, he cried and he laughed and there was nothing but the drums and no way to escape. When he hit his head against the pipe, trying to get away, as if that could happen, some awareness came back to him.

With that awareness came an instinct and he pulled up the shields. Shields? Hardly. Against this, they were barely a veil, barely there. But it was something and under the beat, he could hear himself think again. He could even hear himself speak when he whispered in reply, minutes after the Master had spoken.

"I'm listening."

The Master had long since quietened down, sort of slumped forward, arms resting against Barty's shoulders as he leant against him, sharing the noise that was slowly but surely wrecking his existance. Some nights, he was too afraid to sleep, the idea of them ripping him apart from the inside and bursting his head open was a very real and possible fear. To him at least. But to be without them? Now that was even worse. He didn't know how to take silence, the moments when the drums went clear and he could think again. Really properly think.

Sometimes he truly believed his madness was the only thing keeping him together. Without it, he'd be horribly sane. And he doubted he could ever really cope with that kind of reality.

The Master lost himself in the moment, not really aware of anything but the drums till finally, Barty broke their shared moment with the words he'd longed to hear in the voice he'd wanted it to come from. With his eyes closed, it was so easy to believe it was him. His sad pathetic little fantasy. "I told you they're real. I wasn't just crazy, they're in my head and they're going to destroy me."

His eyes pried themselves open and he looked directly at Barty, his moment of desperation seemed to melt into a strange smile that didn't scream 'sane and together'. "And I love every moment of it."

After all, what would he be without them? They were his universe, his destiny and everything to him.

Told him... Oh. Barty realized that he was talking not to him, but the man, whoever it was, that looked like him. Now that was a chilling thought, made more so by the fact that he had no idea how the Master would take it when he realized that he wasn't him.

But those drums. He could still hear them and perhaps the Master's words made more sense to him than they would have made to many others. He was only human and he was young, very young, but he knew about insanity. He'd embraced it and he did his best to control it and he could hear the drums, he could, even if it took all his willpower to drown them out enough to make him capable of bearing the sound.

"I... I think I understand." Still, he couldn't be sure and he didn't sound sure, either.

The Master wasn't mad enough to really be able to believe this was who he wanted it to be but he had to admire how well Barty took it in his stride, trying to pretend he understood and knew what he was doing here. With a faint sigh, he finally pulled away, letting Barty cling to whatever tattered shreds of sanity he had left. The Master didn't have such a luxary.

Instead, he rolled off Barty and sat side by side with him, arms on his knees and head resting in his arms. It wasn't like he could do much else and the company was nice enough, even if he didn't feel overly social.

"You don't understand, you never could. You're a tiny little speck in the universe, you've barely lived and you're not long off death either. You don't understand the importance, the idea of carrying such a burden," the Master remarked, his tone laced with a sort of bitterness. Some people had it so easy. "Over a thousand years of this and I still don't know when it'll be over."

Barty just made a vague sound of agreement, because he didn't really know how to argue with this anyway. Especially not with his head still feeling as if it might just explode any moment, even from just the memory of feeling that beat in them. So he stayed silent, leaning against the wall and wondering what he was even doing here. Over a thousand years.

The Master definitely messed with everything he'd ever been told to believe. It went a long way toward making him feel insignificant, but even though he'd been feeling superior to most of his peers all his life, that wasn't a huge blow. He was ready to recognize someone else as greater, if they had earned it.

"You're right. I'm not long off death. Might be dying right now."

Might be a manipulative bastard, too.

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