Freedom Rings

“You don’t belong here Fate, and this proves it.”

I was shocked. He had them all along, waiting till the very last possible ehn to give them to me. I was free, my collar removed.

How many times did I read them? How many times did I trace the outlines of his signature, one that I had never seen until today? Over and over until I could close my eyes and repeat the rence word for word. He had not abandoned me as I’d suspected. Was this to be my lesson after all?

I clutched the manumission papers emotionally to my breast and tried not to cry. I had been a slave for almost three en’var and now I was to be free. No, that was wrong, for I had been set free the day I found Silas’ collar. He had never treated me like a slave; he had always been good to me. He had allowed me more freedom than I had a right to and I had blossomed under his care. And now this.

The scroll stated that if he did not return within the course of one en’var, I was to be given my freedom, four silver and two garments. For the first time in my life, I am truly on my own.

Jaspin has been a good friend as well as an adamant teacher. He has made me realize that all things happen for a reason. Too, he assured me that Silas had cared for me, that he had wanted me to be safe and that he had expected me to do well. I have till the end of the hand to find another place to live before he boards the house up and moves on to join the sisters. He has warned me to always keep my manumission papers on me lest I fall prey again.

For once I can truly say with a sense of awe..

The butler did it.

The Invisible Virgin

He’s not coming back.

My future teeters precariously, balanced on little more than hope and the whispers of cards. They say he is gone, that he will not be returning, that this was how the string of life had mapped it, that it was never meant to be, that it was not the lesson I was to learn.

Most of the slaves have gone, with the sisters I assume and though Jaspin has remained for the time being, he too will be closing up the house and moving on. I’m not sure where this leaves me. Alone? Unowned? I still bear the collar of Silas, though the ruby colored stone that dangles beneath has darkened to an unattractive black.

I have searched for papers of manumission, or a bill of sale, but as of yet, I have found nothing. Most likely I shall not, for who bothers to will a slave? So what am I now to do? I could continue to hide in this house, as I have been doing for the past several months, but soon the food would run out and I would be forced to find me way regardless. I have the coppers that I have saved, none spent and could acquire more through the reading of cards, enough to eke out a comfortable, though not a resplendent existence.

I am saddened that he is gone, this man I have loved and lost, but if this was not my destiny, then I am not completely without further expectancy

Life Continues

Eight months since I’ve seen him.

The en’var of his ownership over me has come and gone, without a word. Not that a man such as he owes me, but I wonder as to his fate. Is he alive? Does he think about me? Does he miss me, even a little?

The cards have been unusually quiet, as if they are brooding a loss of their own, or perhaps this is just transference of my own feelings into the deck I so cherish. They want to tell me something about myself, but I don’t want to listen. I don’t want to know.

I’ve barely left the house at all the last several hands, or for that matter, his room. I sit on the balcony watching the road below, Glee occasionally coming to check on me, but even she cannot replace the gloomy abandonment with cheer.

I miss him.

Sacred Whispers

Fate. Not only is it my name, it is what depicts me.

I am a slave, a woman bound by collar, one that has always hovered on the fringe of slavedom, even when I was free. My destiny had never been a secret, a path set long ago, before my birth.

My life has yet been uneventful, my slavery an easy one. I am allowed many amenities and privileges, I am not ill treated and I love the man that owns me, and though he cares for me, I do not believe such is returned.

I am allowed to sleep on my Master’s couch, though mostly my company consists of only books, those that are scattered comfortingly about me like precious friends.

I am quiet and I keep mostly to myself, the saved coppers from my readings mine to do with as I wish, though I do not spend them. They are kept in a small jar atop the nightstand in Silas’s room.

The man who owns me is full of secrets, as is the House in which we live. There is a hunger in his eyes when he looks at me, but it is not the use of flesh he covets. It’s something more, something darker, a desire that neither of us has come to terms with. Not that it matters, I trust him completely.

He is the Ubar.

And then there is the other, the exact opposite of what I know, what I understand. So like the man that owns me, but not. This man I do not love, in fact he terrifies me, but somewhere within the transparent puppet’s string that links all mortals together there is a common bond. One perhaps I do not wish to know.

He is Ruin.

Dreaming of Home

The lapping of the waves bathed my feet in such soft reverence and if I closed my eyes, I could feel a thousand tiny licks tickle at my toes. My heels dug into the wet sands, carving a small hole where ocean pooled. Lar torvis streamed downward in warming rays, creating small reflecting jeweled prisms where droplets on my flesh reigned.

I think have never been so content, so completely free of turmoil and so emotionally calmed. I knew that if I died at that precise ehn, that nothing could have made for a more perfect departure from this world.

Heavily fringed lids covered my eyes and I lay back into the cool escape of the sands, nestling into the silhouette my body had made. I shifted, first to the left and then to the right, something sharp poking me in the back, probably an errant stick or a shell. I wiggled and squirmed, trying to alleviate the uncomfortable entity from poking me, but to no avail.

I awoke with a moan, trying to dislodge the corner of one of the books I was laying on from my spine. It was hard to tell which book was the culprit, for in fact, there were many that shared my place of rest on Silas’ couch. Today, before I made my way back to Ar, I would at set the room to right.

When at last I gave up the search for the object that had awakened me from such a surreal existence, I moved to the window that over looked the courtyard below. Dawn’s gray knife was sluicing through darkened twilight skies and colliding with a pinpoint of magenta, one that would soon burst with heated hues of topaz, oranges and touches of copper.

I have come to realize though this is not the island home on which I have been raised, it is no less beautiful. Sunrises and sunsets hold a magic all their own across the land, but then, I’m sure that is true of any city.

Know it or not, I am home.

Absorbed

There are some things I do not dare relate within the pages of this journal; for fear that people will think me mad, should it ever be read.

Silas returned home after a three month absence, but I was most happy to see that he had been restored to me unscathed. I can’t even find the words to relate how relieved I was that he had made it back safe. But safe from where? He doesn’t tell me where he goes on these long sojourns and I do not ask, for I am just a slave and have no right to know. But I miss him none the less when he is gone.

He is, even now, still in his study downstairs as I write this by the sputtering, flickering glow of the candle’s flame, catching up on family matters and household trivia. Gillara has been sent off to stay with relatives and I find the house far too quiet in her absence.

He called for me immediately upon his arrival and I hurried down to meet him with all the eagerness one slave can possibly contain. He missed me! I could tell it by the look in his eyes.

Then he asked me the oddest question. If I trusted him. Does he not realize how devoted to him I am! Perhaps this was merely said for my benefit, for the small bruise I now display upon the base of my neck, the cost of lavish kisses and perpetual praise.

Tonight I was touched like never before. It was so intimate, so absolutely absorbing that I thought I would surely explode, shatter like a mirror into a myriad of tiny silver shards.

He needed me and I would be a fool if I didn’t admit to needing him as well. I will enjoy him while he is here, for I know that his business will take him away from me again soon. Tonight I will curl into a dreamless slumber at his side and forget what may come. Tonight I will be content.

Hearing Bells

I think I should like to learn how to dance.

I’ve been watching the other slaves and I see no reason why I would not be able, with much practice, to move as they do. I never thought I would want to learn, but I guess this was spurned on by the night that Tony commanded me to dance. As terrified as I was at the prospect, I have to admit that it excited me as well.

I have no misgivings of my abilities. I will never be a great dancer, but I could, maybe, be a good dancer. Of course I would have to find someone to teach me, I don’t think watching is quite enough.

Who knows, maybe I could even earn a set of bells that jingle when I walk.

The Thunder Rolls

I watched it from a balcony on the upper most floor, the coming of the approaching storm.

Thunderheads rolled inward, indigo blue interspersed with taints of gray and the occasional touch of foamy white. The storm was long, stretching at least three pasangs, all the way to the walls of AR. They would feel the wrath of the mother as well.

I can only compare it to the sandy beach of my island, the waves that roiled inward towards shore and curled under amongst themselves, crashing into the rock break, a melody created within their muse. The air was alive with a current of electricity, locks of my hair lifting around my head in a haloed static impulse.

There was a time when I felt I was a part of nature, so closely attached to the island was I. I haven’t had that feeling since I left my beloved home, no longer in touch with the innocence it once brought me.

Pillars of lightening broke through the skies towards the ground, a glittering hail of sparks falling a nearby tree with a bestial sound, while the dance of tharlarions thundered over head. I wanted so much to embrace it, be apart of it, to feel it, to touch it, taste it.. to be the lightening rod from which it breathed.

Icy rain drops plummeted downward, thick and heavy, baptizing my body and promising me rebirth, but only if I accepted the gift offered.

I ache, but it is something I cannot explain. I have no physical malady, nothing that would keep me abed, but I know something is clearly wrong with me.

I haven’t touched the cards in over two hands, even though they call out for me to do so. They beg me, they plead with me, a constant echoing of whispers in the shell of my ear. But I cannot, because I am afraid of what they may reveal, the truth that may unfold. Perhaps they only call out to me to taunt me with the fact that I am not a special slave, only.. different. In the end, I know, though they may betray me, I will not, cannot resist.

Slave Wine

Glee had awoken me in her usual cheery mood, her chipper voice urging me to open my eyes. She was bearing a tray, upon it a glass, this offered to me to drink. I knew what it was immediately; I having already imbibed in such upon my being brought to Ar.

He has not touched me, made no move upon me that could be construed as carnal intent. I do no know if this relieves me, or somehow makes me feel inadequate. He is always gentle with me and he never raises his voice. He is not abusive, neither physically or emotionally, though he does tend to be distant.

I find I want to please him, I want him to know me completely and yet, I think deep down inside I am glad that he has yet to make his intentions known in that regard.

Am I desirable? Does he see me more then an object to own, an amusement to ponder? Has fate forced me to fall for the wrong man?

“We all take it at the same time, it’s easier to keep track of that way.”

She spoke, dragging me from my thoughts. It was this small sentence that spoke volumes. I had not been singled out to take it; there was no reason for me to drink other then the fact that I was now as easily kept track of as the others. It had not been his idea. It had not been requested by him. I would still be safe.

Safe. It is a word that I have not felt an affinity with for over a year. A slave is never safe, lorded over by the free, expected to be perfect in every respect. We are not soulless animals, regardless of what may be thought of us.

I think today I shall go in search of Landra, it’s been far too long since I have seen the slave girl and I miss her company, much preferring it over the slaves of this house. Of course I shall have to take a shadow with me. The one that smirks much and says little, Brawn. I shall ask if he would like to accompany me.

I am not a silly slave given to bouts of unneeded pretense.

I am not greedy girl, a wanton woman or a frivolous female.

I am not a belled beauty, a desired dancer or a pierced princess, as so many other slaves may lay claim to.

All these things I am not, so what does that leave that I am?

I am the essence of illusion, destiny’s doll, innocent and untouched, sent across the stars to new realizations.

I am the piece of the puzzle that always seems to escape to the floor unnoticed, a complex design of nature’s anomaly.

I am a riddle in the midst of mortals, a butterfly amid the Kings.

I am questionable.

I am flawed.

I am owned.

I am a telling fate.

Interspersed Realities

I slept soundly, a warm dreamless slumber brought on by the man that held me through the night. I hadn’t realized how much I missed him until he was home again and I was allowed to wrap myself around him like a warm cocoon.

I have lived in his house and shared his couch for over a month now, and still I know so little about him. He is not open with his past and he shares no secrets. I think I am the only one not to know things, for the other slave often taunt me with hints, but tell me nothing.

I often find myself on edge when dusk comes, the house having no energy bulbs to light it, only candles and oil lamps to reflect the path when daylight is denied. It is eerie and unnerving and I jump at the slightest sound even though I have not been given a reason to be afraid. When darkness falls I retire to his room, light all the candles and tharlarion lamps I can find, and I have even been known to start a fire despite the heat of the night, for the sole reason it brings cheer to an otherwise dreary space.

In my explorations of the house, I have found that there is one door locked to me. When I asked Jaspin about it, he told me the door led to a lower level and that it was locked because the stairs were old and in need of repair. It was locked for reasons of safety. So why did I see Carry using the door? And Glee on another night? So many questions, so few answers. I’m beginning to think nothing is as it seems.

Forever Lost

It is the bane of a slave to love the man she is possessed by, even though he may only show her general warmth. I never thought to be a slave that would love, but then, despite my collar, I never thought to be a woman possessed so completely either.

My collar. Such has changed.

My outing to the falls, complete with Brawn’s shadow, had been a short one, Silas coming to claim me. He was back from his trip and he was bearing presents.

Our return to the house was a quiet one, though his orders were followed in hurried command. Sent to his chambers, those that I still share, he accompanying me.

His couch was littered with the books of my amusement, tomes that offered comfort in the darkness of a lonely night, only room for the outline of one sleeping slave. I hadn’t expected him back from his trip so quickly, but he seemed more amused then angry by the sight of his messy room.

I was ordered to kneel near the hearth; the box brought forth that held my fate. The ribbon about my throat was removed, that which would soon replace it brought forth from the box.

I had never dreamed that such beauty could exist in steel. Intricate was the delicate design, though the collar itself was thicker then others I’d seen. Dropped from the center of steel was a cage of gold, a brilliant red stone trapped within.

He told me I was to beg for his collar, but first I found the need embrace him. Instinctively my arms wrapped around his neck, my affection for the man that owned me shown. Now I would be the dutiful slave and beg.

I did something very uncharacteristic of me. Or at least I would have thought so less then a year ago. I submitted to him. I held my hands crossed over my head and begged to be his. It was a ritual that needed to be confirmed, a rite of passage that needed to be complete before I could truly belong to him. I begged for his collar, I begged for his deliverance, I begged to be whipped if I was ever the erring slave. I begged to be worthy, I begged to be kept until my last dying breath. I begged as a woman that needed a man. I begged as a slave that needed a Master.

The collar was set around my neck, the lock clicking in finality upon my throat. He kissed my flesh just above the collar and wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me tighter against him.

He does not love me, I know, but he feels some sense of affection, some bit of tenderness and for now, it will have to be enough.

Folds of Silence

Learning the rules of the House and becoming familiar with my chores had taken up a great deal of my time. Too, I find myself lost in the sea of books when I’m not needed elsewhere, the library having become my sanctuary.

I have always found peace within the pages of books, be it the fanciful illusions of another’s life or the stoic revision of governmental laws. Even as a child I craved escape in this way, knowing the life that awaited me. Knowing a life I would never have. I find the musty smell of ancient rence comforting, a familiar scent that takes me back in time, that reminds me of my family. I wonder often how they are. This.. oddity I have with books makes me feel closer to them, as bizarre as that may sound.

My excursions beyond the estate are few and far between, my relationships with the other slaves still held on precarious ground, I, the new slave, not yet trusted. I’m not sure that I will ever be.

Favoritism is not always a symbol of acceptance.

The Waiting Hand

I am not allowed to leave the estate without an escort. Mostly this consists of Glee, though occasionally I am accompanied by one of the other slaves. The reasons for this, I assume, is so that those who watch over me can report back to Silas. I’m finding it quite uncomfortable to always have someone looking over my shoulder, watching my every move, waiting for me to make a mistake. I think they would enjoy seeing me punished. I shall try and not give them this opportunity.

I shall be allowed to sleep in the Master’s chambers indefinitely. He said the only time I will be refused the sanctuary of his room is when I am being disciplined.

There are times I catch him watching me, when he thinks I am unaware. His look an odd mixture of appreciation and.. hunger? He wants me, I can tell, and yet, he denies himself of me. Perhaps this is some strange ritual I’ve not heard of. Or perhaps he has no plans to ever touch me other then the contact of night’s sleepy embrace.

I have much yet to learn about being a personal slave to a man I desperately adore. The Waiting Hand is not easy.

Routines

I have settled into a rounded routine of chores, exploring and trying to make friends with the other slaves. The house, though large, is not as completely confusing as I had previously thought, though I have made it a point to stay away from the wing where his sisters, whom I’ve not yet met, reside in.

I still stay in his room at night, yet privileged to sleep on the rather large, ornate couch, though I’m sure this will change. I don’t think he expected me so quickly, hence I don’t think he knows quite what to do with me yet. The cards are beginning to speak to me again, perhaps forgiving me for my earlier diversions. Or perhaps they speak to me because I am yet pure of a man’s touch.

The other slaves still look at me as if I have some ill fated, incurable disease, all save Glee and even she can be unnerving at times. Jaspin has promised they will all warm up to me in time, though I’m unsure how much time it will take. In the meantime, I’ve tried to show them that I am more than willing to do my share, and more.

The Journey

"Set what you have brought from your past life upon the floor, and bring your hands behind your head."

All was removed, I now the naked slave, save the cold dark glitter of the key I yet wore about my neck and the virgin belt that still separated me from my unsure future. I bore no collar; I sported no lying veils of modesty. I was an owned bit of flesh with one purpose in life, to serve and please the man that owned me.

The man who owns me. Even now, as I write this, recanting the day’s events as best I can from beneath the pale glow of lamplight, I feel the familiar flush creep upon me. Even now I can feel the wild hammering of my heart at being the possession of such a man. I still do not understand what it is he sees in me or why he has chosen me from what I’m sure is a grand collection of very appealing slaves. I am more then not, too quiet, losing myself amongst the multitude of other collared chattel.

But he sees something within me others do not.

I am not a stupid slave, I know there are those that wished to own me for my ability of reading the cards, something I once wanted, but I now know that sort of ownership would have been hollow and without substance. He offers me so much more. He offers me growth and what he takes is so much less then what I receive in return.

When he looks at me I can feel the stirring echoes of something untapped, something intoxicatingly carnal and delicious.

I slept by his side last night, though he made no move to touch me other then allowing me to snuggle against him. When I awoke, he was gone, replaced by Glee who was smiling down at me, urging me to hurry and dress. My collar, for now, is a burgundy ribbon tied about my throat holding a tag that dangles downward, stating my ownership. My new garment is also of a burgundy hue, apparently my Master’s favorite color and one he wears often, while the other slaves wear a shade of blue.

The other slaves. I believe fitting in will be harder then I earlier anticipated. They tend to be very cliquish, save the Gleeful one.

I miss Perelandra. I’ve so much to tell her!

The Chosen

My sleep was laced with turmoil, my mind fighting the sands that held me captive. I was dreaming, standing on the edge of a cliff, the cards fluttering from my grasp and cascading into the deep chasm of an endless cavern below me. I was crying. I was empty and I was completely alone..

This morning I find I am a melancholy slave, a woman in chains who is very uncertain of what her future holds. What I think to be real constantly changes, morphing and mutating into something I don’t fully understand.

They are making me choose, the cards, their whispers less commanding and their truths more confusing. I have never been afraid as I am now. I never mourned my freedom, my purchase or the daily toils of a slave. But this, it is as if a piece of me is being ripped out. Through all my trials and tribulations, I have had the safely and security of the cards, cards that now seem to rebuke my choices.

He said he would want me, even with out my odd ability. He said it wouldn’t make a difference, but the cards whisper otherwise. They taunt me; they tease me with their mirthless meanings. They test me, daring me to let them go.

Though I had hoped to be sold, the decision was so quick and unexpected, I’m afraid I wasn’t at all prepared for it. I think I was still in shock by the time we came upon the estate, the thrall and I.

My first impression of the house was one of ominous overhang and I’m afraid I annoyed the male slave I was following because my pace grew weak so that I could stare. It was probably nothing more then the catch of lar torvis lingering just below the horizon which gave it its other worldly glow, darkly silhouetted against the tangerines and orange-ish hues of a rapidly receding day.

By the time we at last reached the back entrance, I was both out of breath and blinded by the light that was released from the open door, stepping back while my eyes adjusted. I was.. home.

Faces I remember, but names not so much, a slave named Glee spewing them out in rapid fire succession. Carry, Silent, Maid, Pain, Brawn and of course, Glee, slaves named by attitude or appearance. I was suddenly a scrutinized slave, one that had become the spicy entrée of an otherwise boring meal. They weren’t at all as I had expected them to be, though truly, I’m not sure what I expected.

Soon my scenery was changing, Glee taking me to meet the man that now owned me. I still couldn’t believe my luck, a man such as he wanting a slave such as me. Even Glee admitted to a bit of envy, I being the first personal slave she could remember him ever having, one picked by his own hand.

The gleeful one had pushed me through the door, already retreating into the candle lit passage as I crossed the threshold that would forever change me.

As I stepped over the blurred line between one world and into the next.

As I became, not one of the many, but one of the chosen.