back then i couldn't do the things that i can do now.
this thing is slowly taking me apart.
grey would be the color if I had a heart.
-NIN
this thing is slowly taking me apart.
grey would be the color if I had a heart.
-NIN
25th Day of Spring, 510 A.V.
Even before dawn crept across the lake, dim fires were flickering to life in the servants' quarters of the sprawling Lazerin estate. Weak, timid light that gasped helplessly in the pervasive darkness of that great ancestral home, crawling through corridors as the servants gathered to be assigned their daily tasks. Morning brought with it a blessing of light, spilling a facade across the city of Ravok that lent it a romantic beauty, but in this thickening pre-dawn there lingered still a taste of the rooted malevolence dwelling in even the loveliest of sunrises.
Jilly had drawn the short straw that day, which left her the task of bringing young lord Damijan his morning toilet. She still held the stump of twig, clutched it between her trembling hands as the others went bustling about their business, trying to ignore the frightened glint that stole into her wide, brown eyes. It should have been the simplest of chores, but in the few weeks since the prodigal son's return, no slave had made it in and out of his chambers unscathed. A verbal lashing seemed merciful. None had been unduly maimed, but she'd seen him pacing about the manse, prowling like a caged shadow cat, an ambiguous twist to his mouth that spoke of devouring the nearest canary – no, worse – simply the nearest person whole, skin and bones and all. It wasn't the cool viciousness that seemed a family trait amongst the Lazerin; there was a personal anger that drove the man, a meanness of spirit that even logic did not inform.
Marta, the aging slave who directed traffic through the kitchens, grasped Jilly by the shoulders and gave her a sturdy shake to jolt her out of her terror. She nearly dropped the straw, blinking into the old woman's narrowed black eyes, heavily lined by layer upon layer of crinkled skin. Marta reached up, daintily tucking a strand of Jilly's hair behind her ear, and up into the plain scarf she wore.
“He doesn't like it if you're pretty,” Marta explained, her voice a ragged thread between them. “Don't speak to him. Or look at him. Don't make a sound. If he's asleep, don't wake him. If he's awake, pretend he's asleep. Just go in and do your work, and leave. He doesn't want to look at you, so don't give him an excuse to.”
“Yes ma'am,” Jilly whispered.
“Go on,” Marta urged. “No use prolonging it.”
Jilly packed a copper basin with fresh linens and soap, a teapot full of hot water and clean razorblades, several herbal packets to give the water the hint of a sharp, appealing scent and even a hair comb and tooth pick. Meticulous and organized, she was nevertheless aware of how her hands started to shake as she approached the young Lazerin's chambers. She had to stop half-way down the corridor and take a deep breath; the trembling in her fingers made the teapot rattle against the side of the basin.
Once the sound had subsided, and she could hear around the deafening race of her own heartbeat, Jilly propped the basin against her hip and went to the door, taking all care to turn the latch and ease the portal open on its hinges, making not a sound. The sickly glow of a single lit candle spilled up against her toes as she crept into the room. No sound within, and so she gripped the sides of the basin and hurried on silent heels towards the dressing room. She moved swiftly, her shadow a flicker against the guttering light from the candle, but she slowed her pace as her eyes roamed over the room itself. Lavish as all the rooms were, beautifully decorated and exquisitely designed, but there was a sickness to the space, as though the curtains had not been drawn open in months. And perhaps, she thought distantly, they hadn't. Damijan had returned near death, delirious from a wound that nobody would talk about, and so far as she knew, he hadn't yet gone into the city itself, languishing instead in the house, and this very room.
Thick, dark curtains blocked out what Jilly assumed was a view of the steadily lightening sky outside. There was a figure in the expansive bed, limbs caught up in blankets, its head overcome by an abundance of pillows. The slave felt her breath hitch in her throat when she thought she saw some movement by the toes, or the hands. When no further twitch came, she refocused herself and scurried into the dressing room. She set down the basin across from the armoir, beneath the broad mirror nailed into the wall. Set the teapot beside the basin, and the linens beside that, then arranged the comb and the tooth pick and the little scent packets, her deft fingers working swiftly to articulate the task at hand.
It was the most exquisite morning toilet likely anyone had ever seen. Prepared with care and thought and, most of all, fear – it was perfect. Welcoming. The sort of thing that would inspire a smile onto the mouth of anyone fortunate enough to have a slave so loyal to pay as much attention to such a thing as Jilly did. She took a step back from her work, looking it over once more to be sure it was flawless, and then sighed contentedly. Yes, it was good work. A flicker caught her attention, and her eyes snapped up to the mirror.
He was standing behind her. It wasn't until she saw him that the hairs on the back of her neck stood to straight attention. She willed her eyes to drop down to her toes, but couldn't look away from his reflection in the glass. What drew her attention should have been his face, perhaps, for he was strikingly handsome, or the hard ridges of his body, nude from the waist up, the planes of which any number of the slaves had expressed a desire to explore. But her eyes were riveted instead to the thick, black, tattoo that wound itself down from behind his left ear, threading over his throat and then branching off across his collarbone, joining again to twist across his ribcage and disappear around his side. It was red hot and angry, as though the ink had freshly been driven into the skin. She couldn't move for staring at the loveliness of it.
And then her eyes met his, and she was shaken completely out of the trance, twisting immediately about so that she could scramble to get out of his way.
She only made it a step before he backhanded her across the jaw. Full-knuckle, and it felt like the force of a warhammer slamming into her cheekbone; she spun on her own feet and then collapsed across the dressing room floor, gasping as the pain erupted across one side of her face. She whimpered, and flinched when she saw him sneer in response, curling in on herself in case he decided to kick her for the sound.
He didn't, though. He just stepped over her, to the counter beneath the mirror, and dipped his hands into the basin of hot water.
“That was for staring,” he murmured, before he bent to splash the water over his face.
She dug her fingers into the floor and crawled, until she could stagger up to her feet, all but running across the adjacent chamber and through the door, out into the corridor beyond. Where sunlight speared in like the lance of a knight to protect her from the dragon within. Jilly knew that was just a fancy, though, for there were no knights in Ravok. Only dragons, and worse.
