27th of Summer 514AV
The air, basking in scorching light was brewing and boiling. A dry gust passed through the windows, playing with his sweaty, then dried, then sweaty again hair. Frazzled and ruffled into further disarray by the wind, he vaguely comprehended why she urged him to buy a comb. That didn’t remove the sting though.
“I thought it’d be wiser to save it,” he muttered. The veins near his temples pulsed and he feared that if he stayed like this, praying for forgiveness, for five more chimes, he’d be nothing but a pile of tough, dry bones. The mere thought of buying a cape nauseated him. In this heat, to think of having any more clothes on made his gut turn inside out.
Not that she would care. She didn’t seem to care about his mother, and he was almost happy for it. The less she knew of him, the better. He vowed not to run his mouth about his mother so easily again. Cruel people like her, family of that horrid slave merchant, wouldn’t doubt a second on using knowledge of his past against him. To hurt him.
He wouldn’t let them.
He hadn’t tasted the sting of the lash yet, or the crippling fury of a clenched fist, but with the looks Jed had been giving him, he doubted he’d be able to escape such punishments forever. What few slaves he had spoken to here, and on the ship could all tell a story or two about the injustices meted out to them.
Yet no one had talked about the pale, thin, deep-cutting dagger that were words. No one had talked about the humiliation of being on your knees, begging for forgiveness.
Unclasping his hands, his chin dropped to his chest as she rejected his pleas. His limbs raised his frame on their own accord, there was a dull glaze over his eyes. Slouching, escorted by the firm gaze of Mercedes, he stepped past Adelaide but stopped at the steps. Turning, he made a reluctant bow, more so to the floor than to her, and said, “you’re right. You can’t be helped.”
Silently, he wished he could’ve just served her the same cold indifference, that he could just keep his mouth shut and keep her forever guessing on how he viewed her. But the last remains of the wounded, sickly little beast, attempted a frail, low blow.
Even if she could be helped, she would no longer receive it from him. Not even if they would make him do it. He wouldn’t let them make him do anything. One day, sooner rather than later, he would run away. He would save his miza for that day, so he could spend it on whatever he would need to help him escape.
He garbled one more word, a goodbye. Though he much rather would’ve said bye and leave the good out. With all but his vital organs knocked out of him, he went down the winding stairs and reached for the handle on the front door, ready to step out and -hopefully- never come back.
