Chapter 38 - A New Beginning

[Discourse #8]

As you no doubt remember, I have told you that at the age of fourteen in my past human life, I had obtained a slave. It was through an unfortunate accident, one that nearly killed me, were it not for healing magic. For that, I am grateful toward magic, but not toward the black-robed mage, for it was his slavish institute's lack of vigilance that had left me almost dead.

The female slave stayed with me for a greater part of two years. In a way, you could say she had a sort of influence on me, perhaps even to the point of being considered a teacher. I even felt some attraction toward her, despite the vast disparity in our ages—she was twenty-eight years old, while I was only fourteen, though it didn’t matter much.

She was a woman, a nomad from a desert whose name I had never heard of. She was the first woman I ever felt a spark of attraction toward, a feeling that had slowly evolved from curiosity. Mind you, it was not as strong as the filial relationship I had with my father, if comparisons were made. Still, for my dampened emotional capacity, it was saying a lot.

I chose her from among the slaves the black-robed mage had displayed for me. Out of the dozens of exotic human slaves, she was the only one who caught my interest at first glance. I could tell from her slim yet limber naked body that she was tense, unsure of what the future held for her. Nothing good, I would have thought, as her forced occupation was now to be a slave.

Unlike the others, all of whom had varying degrees of despair in their blank eyes, she hadn’t yet resigned herself to her fate. There was a fire of intelligence and determination in her eyes, the color of desert sand.

Bluntly put, her features were not beautiful. But what did appearance matter to me, when I had been told I looked like a cold, noble bastard for most of my life? No, it was the large, livid scars on her tanned, naked body and the small lines of slash marks from swords on her cheeks that enticed my curiosity. Her entire appearance screamed of a story.

I didn’t give the other displayed slaves a second glance before choosing her.

Though I called this caged slave a desert nomad, I didn’t learn of her background until much later, when she had truly become my slave. At that time, I only knew her to be the most interesting slave among those shown to me by the black-robed mage.

Thus, I left that shady institution with my newly obtained slave trailing behind me, my coin purse not a coin lighter. It had been an interesting afternoon, despite my close brush with death.

While I was in that institution, there was a question that had been bothering me: what would prevent a slave from simply running away from their owner? The answer was easily provided, and my curiosity quickly satisfied, when the black-robed mage explained the magic mark he had placed just above the slave’s two breasts.

The binding mark had been smeared with my freely given blood, and a few explanations were given to me about its purpose:

1) The binding magic mark had to be smeared with a little of my own blood every two days, or the mark would explode inwardly, instantly killing the slave. The mark was a powerful form of slavish magic, and the implications of these marks on so many slaves were clear—and grim.

2) This display of magic piqued my curiosity, but when I asked for more details, the black-robed mage merely scratched his beard in stony silence. I had to reign in my inquisitive nature and instead chose to ask how to remove the mark. The only reply I received was: "Kill her." Naturally, I understood his subtle threat that I should not inquire further, and I didn’t wish to tempt death again, having already been a firsthand witness to the man’s magic.

3) The slavish mark also came with features such as a natural tendency to obey the owner and other similar persuasions, but I had refrained from getting those.

“I will not thank you for buying me,” the slave said from behind me, her voice hard and determined despite whatever horrors she had endured in that institution. I could only imagine the mindless and harsh training slaves had to go through to command obedience, but I didn’t ask her about it.

I gave her no response, and she didn’t continue her statement further. She followed silently behind me, likely lost in thoughts of what her life would be like under her new master.

I led her through town, receiving a few mixed stares from passersby, before finally coming to a stop at a clothing shop. Walking around town naked would do her no good, except to fan the flames of hatred in her accusing and harsh brown eyes.

Needless to say, I bought all the necessities she would need, before finally introducing her to my father at the Sleeping Bear inn. That introduction, my guest, had elicited some intriguing reactions from my father, Falin Mead. I suppose I should have been less direct with him, but I figured it would be easier to get over the initial awkwardness by being direct.

“Father, this is my slave,” I said, pointing a hand toward her. “She will be staying with me in my room and will be with me for the foreseeable future.”

Being a merchant, father knew almost everything about trade, even the darker aspects of it such as slavery. Still, surprise was evident on his sputtering face, and the cup of mead slipped from his hand, spilling all over onto the inn's floor.

It was quite some time before the dining room of the inn returned to calmness and an even longer time for my father to become relatively normal. “Very well, Alan,” he said, “but you are responsible for her.”

That was all my father, Falin Mead, said at me bringing home a slave. If I had to describe my relationship with my father, we were not like son and father, but rather like two independents with filial bonds. But that was just from my perspective. I was sure that father greatly loved me as his strange son, even though my face was a painful reminder of his long-dead wife.

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Inside my designated room of the inn, there was a brooding silence as the slave looked at me with suspicion and revulsion.

“I am not your plaything,” she said, determination and hardness on her face, “I would rather die than resort to this for my life.”

Many responses flashed into my mind and I chose the ones that were designed to relieve her, or at least make myself look unassuming. I responded bluntly, “No need to worry, I am not interested in sex. In fact, I have never even done it yet. I am only fourteen.”

She had a surprised look on her face as she inspected me fromm head-to-toes, suspicion creeping into her face, since I did not look like my said age.

“Tell me your name,” I said, looking into her eyes to convey honesty. “Tell me your life story and where you came from. Tell me everything,”

The female slave with her strange features only gave me a curious look, which was tinged with something else, something indiscernible. Then she started, her small mouth opening a little.

“Rhea of the Wanderers,” she said, desolation overcoming her determined face, before continuing. “That is my name and my...tribe...” At that last word, all of her withheld despair and godforsaken loneliness came rushing forth. It was as if the ever constant sun had just became a black void of nothingness.