I'd rather be

[Stronger then You]

The Bay of Dancing Dolphins knows it's name not just for the sake of tourists. Brilliant aquamarines and teals topped with shocks of white cresting waves are a near perfect reflection of the deep azure skies marked with thin wispy clouds. From the water dolphins leap in synchronized dance and play far out in the reef where the fishermen's ships would struggle to catch them. You could hear their delighted cries and chirps from shore; a lonely place aside from the groups of pearlers taking their rest from the toils of their trade. Age does not take well to an Arkaiun and it shows on these men with faces rich with folds and lines, both from laughter and discontent.

Drab colors and sun-kissed skin make them stand out against the plush cream sands; all the easier to identify familiar faces as they made their way from the docks to the shore. Or so it should be.

I have been waiting for my father for a while now, fingering at the fruits and candied peppers I was saving for his after work meal. The hunger in my belly reminded me of the grand dinner mother was preparing at home. She had promised great sea fish and peppers stuffed with spices and rice. Candied peppers and apricots are a small sacrifice to make if it would mean partaking in such a great feast. I think of the dinner table, our chairs, the nicks in the lining my impatient fingers had made. I think of our plates and our spice rack, our hearth and our pans. I think and think because it is easier than realizing that the sun has long since set by now, and my father has not returned from the pier.

My mouth waters, taunted by the unclaimed portions half nibbled in my lap and the day dreams that I submitted myself to. If my father was turning, he would have collected me. That he had left me by some fashion or another to outlive my welcome on the shore was a bitter taste I would have preferred to do without.

As I ate the meal that was not intended for me I watched as tiny fires lit upon the shoreline, shadows cast by bodies long and tangled. Music came in the form of drums, hoots, and hollars. These were the Night Revelers, here to dance and sing to the empty night sky to the sound of their own screams and laughter. I watch on, licking apricot from my small finger tips. Roast boar and stew stain the ocean breeze in a mixture that should be disgusting were I not so ravenous. The pier is still empty; I can see far, far out to the bay a small vessel that has not yet returned floating aimlessly in the night.

Music and laughter from the Revel intensifies; I watch as bodies twist and tangle their shadows like reaching trees against the sand. My father might still return. Were I to not be where he left me, it would surely earn me a whipping were he to find me instead engaged in debauchery with the Revelers. They are servants and slaves after all, no matter how much they dance and howl at the empty sky come godswake they must return to their dwellings to resume service to their House.

I consider the twisting silhouettes and the empty pier a little longer. The sands no longer warm are cold beneath my legs, and without a fire the breeze bites into the bare flesh of my arms. It is cold and dark and my heart is heavy with anticipated grief. I could escape it all, for a little while.

[Stronger then You]

"You're eating again, Amalia?"

The voice comes from the Madame Carleen; I can recognize her by the stench of her gooseberry perfume.

"I've not eaten since noon, Madame."

Sharp sensation whips across my hands, heralded by a much louder crack of the Madame's thin baton.

"Your thighs girl. How is a suitable fiance to find you behind all this?"

A line of fire sparks across the softness of my legs, but the sound scares me more than the pain. Instinctively my fingers travel the circumference of my thigh, delicate around the line of red now drawn across them. Is my body not correct? My flesh is soft, pliant against my fingers. I tug and pull at unfavorable curves of my legs and find my frustration and hurt the heat to cut into the clay of my form. I needle at myself, the stench of gooseberries only plugging my nose and the pitched cadence of the Madame drowning out my ears. My hunger is an emptiness in my chest revealed as my hands cut and peel undesirable angles. I claw at the branding burnt into my cheek, the bone of my shoulders, the line of my waist. I want to be how I'm suppose to be. I want to be whole.



I wake up, my mouth stuck ajar in muted distress. Sweat floods the sheets and bed, sticky against the still taunt cords of my muscle. My breath leagues away from my lungs and I struggle to catch up, reaffirming that I am still here. A form lies next to me, unconscious and ignorant to my near-death experience. With quiet motions I liberate myself from the sheets that still tried to cling. The form on the bed stirs, and I feel some ache in my chest that asks I seek comfort there.

Yet I do not. Instead I cross the room, gently acknowledging what I can. I feel soft dirt floor pack beneath my feet. The dampness of the cave kisses humidity to my aching lungs. I hear the sound of my steps muted against the mossy walls and pliant floor. I indulge in the quiet, allowing the burning of my chest to breathe into a small fire that races across my body. The familiarity of discomfort pulls me back to the moment. In the struggle, I purchase myself some quarter of peace.

[Stronger then You]

Madame Carleen is a thin woman with skin that clings to bones like it was nothing more than heavy fabric thrown over her skeleton. Thin lips are framed by her frown lines, her fingers yellowed from all the tobacco and narcotics. A husk of a woman who prefers embroidered finery to catch light on the severe curves of her ribcage and hips. This creature serves as the overseer of the servants of House Laz'aorth, a Crinti Noble of Cathyr.

The Madame is the epitome of what becomes of a slave when they are given whip and allowance. Her voice is dusty like forgotten glass figurines, hitting ear splitting pitches when pulled into a frenzy of shallow flashed anger. The Laz'aorth chose well when they decided upon their overseer. Even the most stubborn of servants bucked up and fast when they heard the crack of Madame Carleen's baton snap the air.

Through the soft archways of stone broken up by sections of paned glass bring soft cool light to flood the corridors. Everything in the Manor is drowned in the filtered sunlight, character and blemish bleached from surfaces when swallowed whole. I miss the warm shore kissed light of the ocean, the cobbled stones beneath my feet are not as giving as the sands. Instead I traded shore lines and dancing dolphins for cold stone and articulated archways whose complexity reminds visitors just how important their hosts are. Everything is chilled to the touch here, even when standing in the filtered light there is no warmth to kiss the flesh. Artificial and aesthetic in every sense of the word.

House Laz'aroth is known for it's textiles and seamstresses; Lady Marchella Laz'aroth, first daughter to Matron Mother Drusinda, is a singularly talented girl with an eye for fashion and design. But like the shallowness the light that drowns out all personality in the estates her collections are passionless; made to tailor the want of the eye rather than that of the soul. It is for this inspiration deprived girl that I work, spinning fabric and stitching sleeves along side the others bred for this line of work. We wear tiny needles and spools on metal caps put on our finger tips, augmentations to make us more efficient bees for the hive.

The work is mindless like the designs. My fingers are tiny, so they have me stitch spiders silk into lace to adorn sleeves and folds. Smells of the kitchen escape from the vents to our small workshop; not even the filtered sunlight can erase the gnawing of my belly. My distraction is quickly met with a CRACK of the Madame's baton as she demands our attention to our labors. Lady Marchella would be arriving soon to review how her latest line of clothes is coming along and (as always) we are behind schedule. I try to lose myself in my lace-work, the small patterns reminding me of clay plates I left behind and a small ship floating forgotten out at sea.

[Stronger then You]

I look in the mirror.

There I see a girl, young and heavy still with the chub of doting parents and comfort. Round cheeks and flat face are framed by a mop of blonde swirls that fall down around scrawny shoulders. Metal caps anointed in sewing needles and spools of thread might as well be fused to the tiny fingers they attach to. Dirty feet are bare against the floor, bruised and cut from exposure to the world.

Baleful green eyes surrounded with red puffy irritation look miserable and pleading back at me. Her clothes are worn, trousers several sizes too big and a blouse that likely belonged to a man before it was hers.

Fingers invade the tangles of my hair, tugging and pulling in a fight to overwhelm the chaos of knots. The smell of gooseberries invade my nose.

"You're so pretty, Amalia. Like me, when I was your age."

The Madame's voice is enough to make my chest tight and fists tremble. Her nails rake through my hair; I want to cry, but I know it will be worse if I do. When I open my eyes I see an ancient version of the youth once standing there in the mirror. She is tall and hunched over, adorned in satins and peacoats that cling to a skeletal form. Branding kisses the left cheek, swirling arcane marks that bound her property of some wizard's wants. I touch my own form, feeling at the scratchy fabric that threatened to swallow me whole. In the reflection I can just see the Madame's cold bloodless eyes drinking in my image with both hunger and disgust.

"If only you weren't so..."

Her voice trails off to needle into my heart and I squeeze my eyes shut. I focus instead on the pain as singular strands of hair are yanked from my scalp, twisted up in the boney knuckles of the Madame. But she does not leave me to my concentration. Instead her nails, sharp and long prod into the softness of my hips, my belly, my thighs, the soft dip of my chin. My hands grab at my hips, feeling nothing there-- but as I look to meet my own reflection I see the summered youth, round and plump in impossible proportions, hewn scars both self inflicted and purchased. In the reflection I see surrounding my image the scowling, sneering twisted faces of familiar faces passed by on the road in the manor in the Night Revel. If I was prettier, would they...



I awaken again, this time overcome with my own choked sobs. My hands tremor, overtaken by the earthquake of my heart that threatens to pound straight free of my chest. I awaken the man next to me, but he does not move immediately to my comfort. This is not a new occurrence for us and I am certain he has grown tired of my weakness. Drowning in my own thoughts, choking on my own terror I look to our room now crowded with my sobs for something to comfort.

My eyes find the baton lying across on the desk.

[Stronger then You]

There are two kinds of parties in Dambrath. We have our balls, of course; courtly affairs with anybody who is anyone, dressed up in finery that tells more than calculated small talk. The Crinti and people who wish they were Crinti indulge in these affairs, aesthetic and beautiful with soft colors to blend into the same manner of dull pallid music. Those attending such affairs do little dancing, and those who do are scrutinized for whom their hands touch, for how many turns upon the floor they take for what color their gown is for where the silks came from and after how many songs do they depart the prosecution's floor.

Only the Lolthites wear purple, and those in the Spider Queen's clergy. Often this comes in royal violets or soft blushing lavenders accented in silver spider web lacing in tasteful, minimal designs to bring attention more to the form than the fabric. Sometimes their dresses are adorned in phosphorous stones and luminescent fungi; better to catch the eye in the later evenings as no proper Dambrathyn party starts before dusk. A redundancy given that by their nature the Spider clergy always commands the room- even if they are not the hosts.

This is much to the frustration of Loviatar's own clergy who favor robes of black and white accented in fine red stitching. The alliance between the Maiden Pain and the Spider Queen is only that in the political documents and history books. Their clergies are singularly petty and vindictive, unsurprising given that their heirophants are aged Crinti women with smiles like vipers. Dramatic flare and reserved tension sparked in the the icy daggers tossed between the clusters of dim colored women make for the evening's entertainment.

At least, this is the fate that the gentry and clergy have damned themselves to. The real party is what lies beneath their feet.

The servants hustle together in the passages below marble dance floors and ball gowns plumed like flowers to a place where gooseberries and face powder has no trace. None of us have dress nor silken dublets, or even harp to play a soothing tune. But we have drums, and improvised lutes that sing songs of revelry and bliss. The musicians time their drums to the tempo of the music above that our passion is not discovered by our masters but we make the sound our own.

There is laughter, drinking, and out of tune songs. Kisses are traded for secrets and lovers strive to keep hold of each other's palm. There is not much water, but plenty of wine to parch thirst. Rumor has it the masters of our leashes know of our mischief in the tunnels, but for sake of keeping rebellions nothing but distant taboo dreams they leave us to our hours of revelry. I don't think too hard on it; instead I let the pounding music flood my senses and move in small motions against the cold tunnel walls.

The air here is humid, sticky with sweat and wine. Fingers are desperate to keep clung to one another as the music continues, lovers hungry for their partner's touch. If your fingers are still intertwined when the music stops, it's decided that person shall be your lover; either a lasting marriage or a trip to the larder for a few hours of privacy. More often than not this is how weddings are determined. Life is short and cruel in Dambrath, it is wise to take your pleasures while you can and a good dancing partner is as good as any to keep you company through the lonesome hours.

Typically the Overseers were tolerant of the practice as well (perhaps even encouraged it to keep morale in good spirits) and would bless unions with little question about the arrangements. Despite the common place of our lackadaisical marriages and ridiculous revelries I find myself at clear discomfort with the tunnels and heat of undulating bodies. I watch as figures turn and dance, reminded of my first turn-about with the Night Revelers on the beach. I think of my laughter, my turning and dancing on winged feet as I met the music with howls of life. Yet when I start to tap my toe I am not brought into that moment or even the present one.

All I taste are the tears when I awoke in their caravans the morning after, brought to a place far away from my dancing dolphins and plush sandy beaches to cold stone castles flooded with filtered sun light.

I breathe; the music floods my ears and sets the tempo to my pulsing heart. I feel my blood rushing in time and as I notice the parts of my body I realize I am already intertwined with the sound. Overtaken with this new found sensation of feeling alien in my own skeleton I shimmy to the floor, dancing and moving to the music in hopes that by my surrender I will be drowned by it. No hands seek to take mine- but why would they? I am imperfect; too much flesh and too little skin, too long of legs and too short of fingers. I am an atrocity to human ratios but I don't need to be to move my feet.

I forget to breathe when I feel a hand grasp my own, fingers tight around my palm. My smile hurts my face. People are looking and staring at us but I cling to the palm that dared hold my own because for once someone holds my hand not leads me by it. I lose track of time; I can't even make out his face in the darkness of the tunnels, even bathed in the rustic light that we are. But I feel his movements, his dancing, I can smell the wine on his breath. I feel lighter than air, emboldened with a new confidence I wield like my own shield against the prying eyes that stare.

All of which, is robbed from me when I realize my hand has gone empty.

[Stronger then You]

This time when I awaken it is a calmer, peaceful occasion. The drumming still haunts my ears and I feel disoriented from dancing that never happened. My heart aches for a balm to soothe. Sunlight breaks through parts in the curtain like golden serpents leaping through the dusty air. I recognize the dull burn of my weary heart, centering myself back from distant memories to the blood which pumps through the threads of my body. Sweat drenches my brow, the honey swirls of my hair matted to my cheeks and neck. I drink the air greedily, feeding the coolness to my lungs as I ease myself into consciousness.

My feet find the carpet of our apartment from off the side of our bed. Our bed. I don't like that word. It sounds like a secret that will earn me a whipping.

Sleeping soundly still, Salhir rests like a swaddled babe; likely lost in his ambitious dreams and visions. I feel a touch of envy as I try to imagine how it must be like, to lie head to pillow, close the eyes and then within moments be within the comfort of subconscious. Would he notice if I joined him inches closer than before? Would the lashes hurt, if I tangled my fingers with his, or would my purchased affection be enough?

Our room is dark and quiet, crammed with old books and layers of dust. Inkwells dotting the corners have long since dried up and quill nibs have gone stiff and rusted. In the silence broken only by the Red Wizard's breathing I begin to clean, starting by pulling old tomes off of shelves. The work is mindless, and that is why I enjoy it. It gives me room to consider the pain in my chest, the ache of my arms, the burning of my eyes that so desperately crave sleep yet my soul is allergic.

Through the struggle I find peace, bought in longer pulls of air and a stillness of my hands. I think of the man that gripped my palm in the tunnels beneath Dambrath's estates and feel my chest heave, wanting for the company. Was it that he left because of the roundness of my legs, the angles of my curves, the narrowness of my jaw? Was it my hair? To blond, to long-

Whirlwinded thoughts are silenced when I feel a warmth pressed against my cheek. Through a chain of logic I could only describe as instinct I tilt my head into the curve of warmth; a rough palm held my wet streaked face. Hesitantly, I crane my neck upward to see the visage of my master standing above me. His hand is a comforting heat, soft against the apple of my cheek. Tightness squeezes my chest, anticipation for fingers to invade and pull my curls or palm to prime itself to strike-- but these things don't happen. Instead there is a faint, sleepy smile and amused angle in his brow. Innocent, were his face not drawn in black inked lines of snarling demons and magical jargin.

I am intoxicated by his kindness. Drunk on the single humble act of a hand holding the round of my face. My eyes flutter shut. It's not real, or genuine; if anything only a precursor to something awful to happen later. Yet I cannot help but lose myself in the indulgence of soft touch. I remain still at his feet, cautious against any movement that might scare his affection away. Breath hitches in my throat and I hold it there to fight back a torrent of emotions and sobs. He wouldn't like that, if his Whip fell apart on him so easily.

In the flurry of my thoughts I don't notice that he has already begun brushing tears from the canvas of my face.

[Stronger then You]

Filtered sunlight floods past breaches in the wall of curtains concealing arched windows. Due to the tempering of the glass, the light comes in a soft fluorescent kind of off-white tinged blue. Robbed of warmth and life the light is cool but still its touch can be felt upon the skin akin to a light silk sheet. A Crinti invention (though I am told it is gnomish in origin) made to dull the sharpness of the day star to a more palpable level for sensitive noble eyes.

It is inspection day and the lot of the servants gather together in the darkened hallway, nude and cold. All of us are Arkuian, our skin a stark caramel against the crisp white of stone floors and walls. The men are taller, broader, they stand with dignity in some semblance of a single file line. Lash marks draw networks of angry jagged lines down their backs and shoulders, worn like badges of honor. The women are stout, shaped like long violins or their bow strings in some cases. Their scars line their shoulders and across the backs of their palms like lace work.

These days happen the first of the month at midmorning, we skip our breakfasts and scrub ourselves of freckles and blemish and any impurities with harsh scouring pads. Our skin raw and red we wait to be inspected; the older servants and injured are sent away (to where I've never been told) and at times jobs are traded or servants used like tokens sent to other houses based on some impossibly trivial decision. The procession moves slowly, soft laughter and dim music leaks from the viewing chamber where we file in two at a time to be observed in all our vulnerabilities and imperfections before our masters.

I am an anomaly in a sea of raven black hair and warm brandy skin. My flesh is marked in freckles and sun spots with nicks in my fingers from unsuccessful games of stabscotch. Youth makes me shorter, rounder than the others, and by grace of my father my head is a nest of messy blonde like our shores. The Crinti say a pure blood Arkaiun is rarer than a clear thought in a man. I am by no means pure; pure means whole, complete, perfect and clean. It is only by some unkindness of the gods that I am the fool's gold of my people.

Gooseberry stench haunts the corridors, accompanied by the clicker-clack of Madame Carleen's heels against the marble floors. Her shadow matches next to mine; hers is a withered tree and mine a stout stump. Sharpened nails invade my hair, pulling tangles straight. The sound of her heavy tongue rolling across her teeth is audible in her breathing. "Too short. Much too short. You know the Mistress likes your head of weeds long." Words are absent from my lungs and mouth, I can only look to the Madame in what miserable silent apology I can muster with my eyes.

The Madame doesn't hit me, instead her eyes rake over my form, unprotected and exposed. She is dissatisfied by her conclusions but she does not tell them to me. Instead she resumes her patrol, punctuated with the occasional CRACK of her favorite baton.


Soon enough I enter the chamber; not so grand when compared to the brilliant gala halls and wide foyers. Modest of size (akin to that of a wealthy woman's dressing room) and lined with mirrors all around, a skylight bathes the entire area in an impure, filtered light. There are four grand chairs, stone bones and plushed with lavender upholstery. Two of them is empty, but the others are occupied by the siblings of house Laz'aroth, all Crinti, of course. Lord Theudias lounges, utterly bored even as his personal servant waits patiently with a tray of silver goblets and idle fidget toys. He is a handsome man, skin grey like soot and without line or wrinkle or sign of hard life. The silvers of his hair are done up in a lazy knot to better display the fine angles of his face. Lady Esmirella, his sister is the same color palate, though she prefers her long hair down in swirls and takes to her chore with more interest than her brother.

I catch myself staring in awe of their gilded perfection, and stare swiftly at the floor. Lady Esmirella's personal servant states my name and current roles in the stitching rooms, then introducing the young boy who stepped into the room with me. We share no moment of solidarity or reassurance- instead we try the accomplish the opposite in pretending the other doesn't exist. The brilliance of the artificial light hurts my eyes, even when I stare at the floor. Eyes bore into me, my skin, my flesh bare to these strangers who call themselves my masters.

"What is your name?"

Her voice is trilled with her accent; she sounds perfect and practiced. My own is a frog's croak, awkward and unsure as I spoke my name.

"What is it you do?"

My mouth opens to speak; my words are rambling as I explain that I'm good at painting and I like dying the fabrics and I'm not so bad at making the lace, but a CRACK of her serving lady's baton steals my words from me. Neither Crinti look impressed, infact the lordling looks all the more displeased at me.

"You speak far to much. That won't do."

I don't need to look at him to know the boy next to me winces for me- but he is relieved that whatever ill the day has in store I have purchased all for myself. "Fetch the Jaw, my Milda," the Crinti woman waves her hand airly as if her serving girl was so light as a fly to be sent off. Anxiety spins the room, What is the Jaw? They send the boy out of the room and leave me there alone in it's center, spotlit in alien light and bare in all my 'too much'ness.

Milda returns with a leather mask with some metal contraption- except it is only made to fit the bottom half of a much larger face. In trying to understand what was happening I was easier prey to the Jaw as the serving girl strapped the muzzle to me, fastening it with a spell knotted in the mess of my tangled hair. Try as I might to pull and tug at the fabric away it snugs close and tight. Air is restricted and no sound of my struggle emits from me. As the servant finished her task and stepped away she left me in a heap on the floor, fighting for air and my words.

The Siblings however, seem pleased or at the very least humored by my show. With a satisfied nod Lady Esmirella continues.

"You will wear that until the next inspection, permitted to remove it should you catch and bring me wound spider's silk- at least five stones worth. Understood?" She doesn't wait for my response, my vision is disrupted with my own tears. It doesn't matter though; I can hear her smile on her voice.

"Bwael. That will be that. Next."

[Stronger then You]

I follow Aqarev through the shadows, stepping in anxious, flighty motions to avoid yet another accident. The Rashemi is stout but loud in his steps as his bare feet hit the dark-swept cobbles. Were it not for that what lurk waiting for easy opportunity on ill-prepared travelers, I would like it here more. There is no light of any variety, not artificial or brilliant. Only soft glows from inexplicable orbs that are kinder to weary eyes. I do not know where we are going, but my guide is eager to take me here. His strides are broad and sure, and I must widen my gait to keep up with him. I don't want him to think I cannot be brought out or trusted with such a simple task like walking in pace.

It isn't long before we arrive to... a section of this city swallowed in shadows that isn't at all remarkable or special until I notice the fire. The fire?

A steed I had barely noticed is hitched to the nearby post, tall and imposing. Hooves are kissed with a low burning fire to dimly light the silhouette of the all black horse. Bright red eyes are unkind and empty, framed with the licking flames of it's burning mane. Surely I have never seen a horse of this nature before and I am not even sure if it can still be called one as much as it may look the part. Aqarev approaches fearlessly, taking the reigns as if it were his own steed as he threw himself upon it. Like something from a painting the Banite rode around with ease around the misty ruins of the shadow city.

"There. Now yhou."

The stout Rashemi defied all laws of expectation as he dropped with grace back to the floor, as if the pounds of armor and weaponry on his shoulders was nothing more than tight, noisy robes. He thrusts the reigns to me, watching expectantly. I take the steed swiftly so he doesn't notice my shaking hands. Horses are the lifeblood of Arkaiun and I haven't ridden since I knew my father's face. This steed would by no means be kind or forgiving, I can sense the malice in his stance and the tightness of the legs. Aqarev chides I not hesitate, and so I do as I'm told.

I find myself in the saddle, instinctively wrapping the reign around my forearm as I start to gauge response and direction. Laughter simmers in my throat and my grin is wide enough it could cut through my brand and cheeks. We start with walks in small circles (though I can tell my steed would prefer to be doing something more impressive with his rider) then larger side to side steps and light trotting.

"I will leave yhou here. Ride until it and yhou are exhausted. And do not go past the city gates."

I'm not paying attention to him anymore, my words form some recitalable thank you before I take my steed dashing off. Air resists against us but the fire of my steed is brighter and firmer. As if feeling some need to impress I feel us ride all the faster, trotting over fallen debris and flying past memories of streets that used to be. The path before us is only just barely visible, but fortunately the night-mare steed knows where it wants to go. It's all I can to hang on and not join the houses that blend into one another as we rush by. Breath is taken in greedy gulps to feed the cackling laughter of my excitement. I want to go faster, I want to keep riding farther and farther until we are far away from everything and everyone. This is a freedom so delightful I want only to lose myself in it.

This is all well and good until my steed announces he is finished with our ride as he rears up and bucks me off, leaving me to dangle at his flank by my forearm tangled in his reigns. The mare's tantrum continues as kicks and whinnies try to dislodge me from the reigns, and in a panic I am able to free myself before flaming hooves find the softness of my flesh. Our experience together is ended by the sound of hoof beats trotting off into the distance without me. I am left to consider empty sky and the rush of blood to my head.

I want to do it again.

[Stronger then You]

I am hungry. Starved for conversation, validation that I am real flesh and blood existing in the same plane as anyone. Largely I am ignored by the command of an unspoken rule that those who would show sympathy would join in the punishment. I am given a large berth, left with nothing to affirm me. My stomach is in constant knots of hunger and need, my arms weak and tired from restriction of air and nourishment.

Madame Carleen agrees to relieve me of my punishment if I see her for 'extra guidance'. While I hate the woman and cannot stand her nor the smell of her perfumes I come to crave the hours with her. If nothing else Madame Carleen is an artist in her craft; the acts I endured were nothing short of inspired cruelty and devoted violence.

This time she has me across from her within the softness of her private quarters- by no means regal or outstanding. A small apartment large enough for a bed, a dresser, a mirror, and a small table. Gooseberries stain the air of the room enough to induce headache. Madame Carleen enjoys a small meal of cheese and apricot jam, all sat prim and proper at her table as if I was a guest and what we were doing was at all common place.

I stand across from her, knife in hand in front of the mirror. I am ugly. I am nothing but a heap of breathing flesh and wounds that pulse with blood. The Jaw encases my mouth and nose, I look like a muzzled wild dog half heatedly dressed in rags.

"Let's take a little more from your left hip. Just a bit more."

The wilted Madame instructs me thoughtfully, and I dutifully hold my knife over a candle's flame.

"You'll thank me when you're older. This will make you much more recognizable- and will distract from the hideous shape of your stomach."

Hideous. I eagerly press the hot blade knife to my side- my cry of pain muted by the muzzle imprisoning my sound. The Madame watches from the other side of the mirror, taking big bites of her jammed apricots. I am so hungry.

[Stronger then You]

The Winter's Rest Medical Clinic is a grand old building, impressive even if dwarfed in the shadow of Cordor's grand Palace. I have never seen inside of it despite my efforts, but I have heard it is the best hospital in the entire city. From my observations it is also the only hospital in the city, thus how I've found myself standing outside it's locked doors in the small hours of the morning.

Snow drifts lazily from heavy storm clouds above, dusting the streets and buildings in a delicate sheet of powder. Yet as snowflakes hit me they evaporate, my hands create steam from their clammy, sweaty heat as I paw desperately at the door handle. Sleep has evaded me for days and I have not drank in conversation for nearly as many. Loneliness grips me worse than my exhaustion, desperation giving strength to my frozen palms as I shake and jimmy the door handle to the clinic.

"Please. Please. Please let me in." I plead quietly to the door as if this wall of steel has the means to offer me the succor I need. Icicles might as well replace my digits as the cold of the door handle steals away the warmth of my hands. The fervent shaking of the handle increases as I become desperate to reassure myself my hands are still there. "Please. Please I am sick, I need, I need medicine. Please. Please I just want some help."

Silence answers me and I feel the grasp on my nerves failing. The world is spinning, the air is light, and there is no one but me, myself, and this locked door. My hands work on their own accord spurned on at the direction of my delirium as I rattle the handle and lock. "Please. Please I'll be good. I'll do everything you want. Anything you want. Please. Please just help me." Bargaining with the door yields little result but hearing my own voice is an affirmation that I am here and real.

Snow fall continues, indifferent to my plight. My hands burn with cold fire that runs up the length of my arms, set ablaze by the freezing temperatures. I imagine the hospital's interior has a hearth, a warm rug, cool water, tea, apricot jam and a drought that will let me sleep. I can picture it so easily, just on the other side of this two feet of steel and heavy iron lock.

Sobs escape me, pathetic and emotional weeping drowns out my needy pleas for aid. I just want to know the same comfort of Salhir when my head touches the pillow. I only want to sleep the whole night and let body and soul know rest. Blood crawls beneath my skin like needling ants, my eyes heavy with exhaustion yet when closed would not yield to comfortable silence. I am screaming but no one hears me; trapped in self inflicted suffering that I cannot escape from.

I weep against the barred hospital door, trying to hide my pathetic shame from the world in my hands. Snowflakes rest comfortably now on my bare shoulders tempered by the cold, piling up in my hair but evaporating on the hot breath of my sobs. As my heartbeat slows from a frenzy of drumming I will find the strength to rise and return to my quarters, where the rod will grant me some measure of peace.

[Stronger then You]

There are dozens of temples in Cathyr, all belonging to one of the two Goddesses, Loviatar, the Maiden Pain and Lolth, the Spider Queen of the Ilthyiiri. Their alliance between the two Faiths is a rocky one prodded by petty matriarchs in thin silk gowns that leave only their schemes up to imagination. Unity has never been one of the adjectives of Dambrath and it certainly does not come into play in regards to how the churches interact with one another. Even Loviatarans squabble over interpretations of dogma in mild statements levied like javelins. Local cartels and thugs would pale in comparison of the ferocity and wickedness practiced on inner-church politics; it was always the latest news as to what Whip disrespect whose Thorn and what Pain was seen speaking with a matron of what Lolthite temple.

Servants are allowed one day of rest in Cathyr, a decree by the most recent Matron of the city (though her name was always lost in her sea of titles and accomplishments) to see to our spiritual needs. What was originally a law used as an excuse by the serfs to find succor in a day of rest proved to be a useful indoctrination technique as beautiful and tranquil faced acolytes and priests representing different churches would beckon us to their pews in exchange for wine and sticky fruits. Picked off one by one by eager wolves to draw more lambs to their flock we were ushered into churches and promised means to understand our place, know infinite pleasure, become masters of ourselves and others--

I was approached by several Loviatarans, all of them hungry to teach me that the muzzle robbing me of my words is a delight I should indulge in. In my honey hair and dull ruddy skin they saw a potential poster child in which to better prove their concepts. The attention was uncomfortable, almost desperate as sharp and polished nails dug to my arms promising a better future. It was only at the beckoning of another serving girl in my quarter that I found a place quiet and humble enough to allow me some inch of freedom.

The Church of Those Whom Weep was not by any means one of the more grand or illustrious assemblies. Theirs was a modest chapel of white limestone and small arched windows of glass stained in mosaics of six winged angels bleeding from the briars that entangled their forms. Overseen by Laity of eunich men and old spinsters, these were apothacarists who sought to find purity and wholeness in the Whip. They studied pain and the art of creating, and soothing as agony could not truly be appreciated if one over indulged. The Deacon of the Church was an old raggedy man who I at first thought had been pulled from off the streets. Patience in his voice despite the obvious lack of time he had to indulge in such civilities added a soothing flow to his cadence. The blindfold too around his eyes made him easier to talk to- no eyes to hold a judging stare.

Deacon Autar is a cold man, scars both self inflicted and earned are worn like badges of his spirituality. Yet he does not speak to us as if he were our better but instead as if he wanted only to listen to our woes and aid us to find the goodness in our hearts through the humbling whip. To we slaves he told us that as we accept the whip and go to it willingly we strip it's wielder of their power over us. To take to pain willingly we humble ourselves and open our hearts to be kind and good because we have known what it is like to suffer.

When I first sat in the small chapel of Weepers (a title bestowed upon them by the other convents that the members of this laithy wore proudly) I expected pain. Yet while cries of cracking whips and wailing men and women echo in the Temple quarter our chapel is silent as we listen to our Deacon who arms us with the means to survive in an unkind world. We are imperfect, impure wretched people but through the whip we will be whole, goodly people welcomed into the lap of the Lady where we will know peace. I came to await the third week's end of every month for our 'spiritual' days, sprinting to see familiar faces I knew as kindred spirits. I too came to wear my scars, rites of devotion and proof of my growth like badges of my personal success and found comforts to my hunger in the lash and cane.

[Stronger then You]

"Perfect."

I love the way that word sounds. I love it more, when I hear my Magus say it; as when he does he does so looking at me. Perfect. Perfect. I count all the things I know to be perfect: tides and stars, old alchemical instruction and Sembian sea maps. Never in the times I count does my name come to mind. Perfect. What a beautiful, wonderful, simple word. My heart has never wanted anything more desperately than this; I am perfect to someone. It is terrifying and wonderful and I want to hear him say it over and over again, even though he is not truly saying it to me. It is a cruel means to proffer a compliment yet I cherish each moment like sacred gifts.

The greatest gift he has fed me thus far are his kisses. I have only had two, and all of them have been bestowed from my Magus Red at my request. An experience I could only describe as pure black powder sparks cut with softness and electricity. Of course I have known of another in personal ways but in cold and passionless ways that never begot the intimacy had in tasting another's breath. I am addicted to the sensation of our connecting lips, craving taste of electricity and love even though this is a poison that will undoubtedly kill me.

My Magus is my master, and he has told me before, that happy slaves are loyal ones. At length he has explained in cold calculations how important it was that a slave be willing and eager. Every deed from how he says my name to how often he praises me are artful strokes of his campaign to root loyalty and devotion into my very heart. But that doesn't make the way he lets me press his palm to my cheek any less sweet. Wisdom in knowing every kindness is done with selfish intent does not sour our kisses or dampen the pace of my racing heart when I think of when he'll kiss my broken hands and call me perfect. Even now as I think of our touch blood rushes to my ears and I feel my chest tighten. Perfect. He thinks I'm perfect.


I know in my heart of hearts that he does not and will not love me because I grasp the concept that I am nothing more than a tool, a means to an end. It doesn't matter that he would not die for me, that he would kill me if the cause was right and that he could replace me at any moment with a prettier, softer, smoother, stronger model. I would die by a thousand cuts or swallow hot coals if it meant he would kiss me. That he would grace my wretched individuality with the implication that I am perfect in all my ugliness. He is my perfect wound; raw and self-inflicted. And I would let him torture me with his feigned kindness for as long as he would keep me.

Maiden have mercy.

[Stronger then You]

The Midsummer Night's Revel is the biggest congregation of debauchery, liquor, and music occurring only once a year in the capital city under the grace of our Queen. The revel consumes the entire main streets and market quarter, old faerie fire lanterns rarely used are born again with soft blue and purple lights, buildings connected by lengths of dim lanterns and colorful streamers. It is a party that lasts for four days but is remembered by the grace of hang overs and clean up for at least another five. Dambraii of all walks, rich and poor attend in masks hawked off ill-reputed shopkeeps. Gaudy designs of foxes and owl-bears and rocs and demons with your occasional abstract artistic pattern take the form of cheap masks donned by every single party go-er, turning our revel into a wild zoo.

House Laz'aorth would of course be attending, but they would only be taking a small detachment of servants (for some political reason I failed to understand) instead of the entire house. Unsurprisingly I am not selected. I am too thick, too round, too stubby, to blonde. I'll offend the senses, gain too much attention. Madame Carleen feeds me excuses and rationale I can't hear over the deafening of my heartbeat in my ears. Even now with my muzzle gone I do not respond, I've forgotten the words and even if I knew them I had nothing to say. Cool bursts of color, purples and blues and soft greens light up the streets of Cathyr in the distance, like tiny orbs of life and celebration contained in their spheres of saturated color. I want to go.

Someone takes my hand; it is the same serving girl who introduced me to my Church. Her hair is thick and braided, face flat and round and her voice is tinged with a hint of Swagcreole that betrayed her origins. She grips my hand tight, her grin is like the lanterns lighting the far away streets.

"Let's go." Her voice is thick with her accent, but that is not why I don't understand her.

"What? What do you mean? We can't go, we weren't invited," Before I can rationalize it, the serving girl rolls her eyes. "We sneak out. You're good at being quiet. I've watched you sneak behind the Madame for fourty paces before she saw you there!" She had? I don't remember. I forget what I was thinking about when I look at the pleading of her eyes.

"You will not regret it. I will get you a mask- just please come." I can't say no. Between her pleading, the touch of our hands and the dull thrum of music breathing to life off in the city, I am helpless to resist. My smile is small, but as soon as it broke free the serving girl giggled and hugged me tight. Were the night to end like this, it would be enough for me. Unfortunately, it does not.

I learn the serving girl's name, Naarah of Swagdar, her mother is a pirate, a captain of her own ship and she sails on miraculous adventures. Sometimes she receives letters recounting of tales of heroism, banditry and high sea-adventures that Amalia compares to our own daring escape from House Laz'aorth. We go through tunnels beneath our estate, the kitchens are empty thanks to the Revel and the winding maze of passage ways make for a bigger challenge than the estate's keepers.

"Do you know the way?" My voice is small and fragile, I don't recognize it. Naarah hasn't let go of my hand though, her smile hardly waned since we started on our adventure. "Of course I know the way! I've got a nautical sense of direction-" "But there's no ocean here, Amalia..." "Be quiet! You'll unbalance my inner compass."

As I start to become deeply concerned I've poneyed up with a psychopath we emerge from the tunnels up into an alley flooded with music and activity from the nearby main street. My partner in crime's eyes are wider than saucers with glee and 'I told you so's'. "Come Amalia, we need to secure our identities for the evening!"

'I-Identities?" I hate the way my voice croaks, but I can't brood on it for long; Naarah is already dragging us between the walls of closed up shops and the sweaty undulating bodies of Revelers. "Yes identities. Did the Jaw take away your hearing too? We must be someone different tonight." We close in on a small cart peddling cheap masks with animal designs, a few more expensive pieces are of fae and angels. The shopkeep couldn't be identified even if he had a colored flag on his back- with so many people moving, dancing, drinking and laughing it was impossible to seperate anything from the mass of movement. Naarah does not care for things like money and purchase, she whips two masks off from the cart and random, and spirits us off through the crowds.

Proudly, my now criminal friend proclaims, "I will be She Who Walks with Shadows!" I don't have time to process the impressively terrible stage name before we trust ourselves into a mostly quiet alley. She dons her mask; it looks like some kind of racoon, flat and triangular in shape with a bandit's mask before handing me mine. A piece of carved wood that looked like one of those odd artistic pieces, composed of flowers and sea shells with sand rubbed into the paint to make it 'authentic'. Even affixed to my face it is uncomfortable, but I understand the meaning of new identities now. "And who will you be, Amalia?"

"Uh... She Who Dances with Waves?" Her terrible naming scheme is infectious, because my assumed identity is also terrible, but it makes her laugh so I don't mind. "We meet back here when the bells chime eleven times if we get separated. And don't take off your mask." I look into the crowd behind Naarah, seeing everyone dressed up in their best costumes and smelliest perfumes, then back to our rags, dull and torn. "Don't worry about all that." She reads my mind, and I feel her fingers touch my hand again. "No one is going to be looking at us. This isn't for them. This is for us."

It clicks, like sparks to dry tinder. This is for us. This is for me. I laugh like a lunatic, infectious as Naarah takes cue and laughs with me. Together we twirl and spin out into the rich cool colors of lavender, vermilion and cyan blues that light the night sky in inoffensive measure. We dance, making our own corner of the world as we twirled and danced- it doesn't matter who we are or what we've done, the music enraptures us and before I realize it we integrate into the crowd, pulled in by a steady percussion that over powers the deafening drumming in my ears. I am ugly, impure, wretched and miserable but none of that matters as much as the hand that holds mine or the tempo of the song.

The night is a blur now, stained with cheap tinted wine and red flower petals tasted off of strangers' mouths like party favors. A fever dream of music, sound, colors and dance punctuated by a final pungent scent of gooseberry perfume.

[Stronger then You]

Sleep evades my every night, and to fill the empty hours in which I should be dreaming instead I go for walks. I travel far and long, wherever my feet take me though I find myself drifting to taverns, temples, crossroads and docks, waiting for something. The task is easy; chitinous boots encase my feet and rob me of direction as they assume the role of transit and direction. They are rough on my skin, unkind as they move synchronized with my own motions resulting in awkward stride and raw sores upon the flesh. Gifts from my Magus Red; and I treasure them and training they bestow in even the most mundane actions as traversing across an empty bar.

A shock of dark hair catches my attention; short, fair skin, flat face, round eyes and the steady percussion of drums calls me to a woman sitting and observing the house band. My heart jumped the inches my boots would not allow from my feet as I saw Amalia there, here, in Arelith. Rocks form in my throat as I stepped with an urgency I didn't know I had as I approached the woman, my hand outstretched-

But it is not her. Of course not. It never would be.

This is Zoi. She smiles much too wide and speaks too softly and she regards me with not even a breath of uncertainty or suspicion. While everything about this impossibly joyful woman grates me, the hunger in my heart does not care. We talk and I learn she is a minstrel, she likes to sing and dance and make people happy. She likes art and culture and has no idea what she is doing on the isle but whatever it is, she's going to do it. I nod and agree blandly, trying to be supportive of her naivety before the Playhouse sign comes to my view. I suggest it to her, and encourage she find others of her feather to bond with and perform. I have never seen a play but I imagine they are full of people like Zoi.

My feet itch with a need to walk; I bid my farewells and good lucks and leave the woman to her music. Into the bitter colds of winter I wander the streets of Cordor with no place in mind until I see another woman, all in red and dark of hair, her steps delicate and precise like a dancer. The minister of glee. Zoi comes to mind and beyond what is rational or reasonable thought I follow after the Minister. Feeling high on the airs of kindness the minstrel gave me I am confident and open my mouth with decisiveness.

Yet this conversation is not like the other.

Hairs on my neck rise up as icey stares watch my every move. I forget the airs of social-confidence as I look upon clean faces, tidy silk clothes, a small entourage of friends now interrupted from their socializing now that I have invaded their perception with existence. Envy flicks at the strings of my heart. A feeling that is not tolerated long before it is smothered in bitterness.

"A whip would tell the Minister that there is a woman, Zoi. She is sweet enough to make one ill and a talented minstrel, only recently arrived. She expressed interest in joining the theater house and a whip hoped the Minister may see her."

Stares are heavy, yet under the guidance of my imprisoned feet and the natural forming spite I hold my ground and words. A monk of the entourage narrows her eyes like blades poised to be thrown from underneath her cowl. They glow with a purity I do not comprehend further than the way in which it makes my skin crawl. Anxiety is a plague that strangles my heart, deafening my ears with its drums. I do not belong here.

"A whip could be undone, re-purposed and unwound for kinder, more useful things."

I feel my gaze sharpen and I reply with curt elaboration as to the new minstrel's location. This was a mistake and now doubt festers on my back like writhing leeches. Heavy and abrupt steps drag me away with hurried paces. I want to go home.



Wide swings a wooden door, in its way stands a stout Rashemi man, oiled-back hair and bare feet run white at the heels. His smile is warm like his skin as he ushers me inside. Anxiety grips my heart but in a good way- I am excited to be in the familiar narrow chamber. There are no windows to be observed from, no cold glares or barbed words. Aqarev makes me welcome, he leaves me water and allows me to be comfortable. So many words bubble in my throat and I want to speak all of them to these ears that are willing to listen to me.

Though try as I did to practice what I would say and how on the way I've forgotten it all and stare dumbstruck at the basic kindness of hospitality. He chides me for my detachment, he teases my stumbled thoughts and half-baked philosophies but it only stands to prove that he had been listening. He is patient with my stubbornness and imperfections; at first I was terrified, scared this was a ploy but after hours of talking, indulging in dialog I am starved for and gorging on perspective I am blind to I am eased in knowing this comfort of friendship.

This is not my home, but it is enough for me.

[Stronger then You]

The last thing I remember about the evening was looming shadow of a tall stone fence killing the alley of our escape. Umbrage of the wall blends in with the dim lighting of the Reflection Room as muddled memories of last night's escapades melts into the present perception. Goose bumps crawl up my skin like sharp needle-pricks upon my pores and my arms are sore, cold at the wrist where the rope binds my hands. I hang suspended here, alone in this purgatory where even thick Crinti-stone cannot contain the soft whimpering of another but a chamber away.

Mirrors line the walls and floor, suspending my imperfection in a sea of flickering candles masquerading as weir lights. It is calm, for now. Yet the pungent stench of gooseberries promises this is not to last.

For what feels like an eternity, I hang upon the very tips of my toes, suspended in time among the dozens of flickering candle reflections. To this day I believe that it is only because I dared leak my breath into the room, that Madame Carleen knew me.

"Amalia." My name on her voice makes my stomach wrench. I start to bring my face to see my Overseer, but instead my shoulders are met with a CRACK of the baton. "Amalia. I do hope you do not care for that name; you understand now that it will have to be taken from you, yes?" Before I can plead, my flesh meets the baton once more. Softly, mockingly, Madame Carleen drags the tip of her baton along my aching flesh.

"I don't do this because I hate you, Paschar. It's the opposite, really." I close my eyes, thinking of dolphins, sea shores and mismatch clay plates. Carleen hisses softly into my ear as if it would soften the venom she would give me. "I adore you. Since the day you came to live with us, I've always seen you as my own flesh. And that is why I am so invested in your progress. Your well being. I only want to make you Correct."

Click clack of heels upon mirror-floors promise the overseer's retreat, but I am wiser than the sounds. I hear tools shifting upon surfaces, metal, heavy and unsympathetic. "You will tell me which of you planned your outting to the Midsummer, and I may show some leniency." My mind flashes with smiles and held hands and laughter and terrible stage names. But the crack of the baton reminds me of reality. I recall somewhere far in my mind, Deacon Artur and his bandages, the weight in his feet as he moved like he carried secrets he could not tell us plain. I do not understand the words from my mouth but they escape me faster than I can know them.

"It was me Madame. It was my idea."

I hear the pause in her gait. She is as surprised as I am. Even now, I can still hear the even breathing of the melted old woman, and the soft ruffling of stiff satins she wore in her gown. The smile in her cadence makes me sick. "Then we will have to focus on those troublesome ideas in that blonde skull of yours."

***

I do not know how long it has been. It does not matter, there is only me, the whip, and the Madame.

"What is your name?"

"A whip has no name, Madame."

The bite of the baton still stings my skin, but I cling to the sensation of fire because it is mi-

CRACK. "And what is a whip's purpose?"

"To serve, Madame."

There is only me, the whip, and this room. Bruises are the color of my complexion. They make me pretty. I am afraid of the sound more than I am the pain. Silence is heavy in the room, suffocating me. I crave the bite of the baton, please don't leave me alone in here.

"And what is a whip?"

Desperation has been robbed from my voice, I do not recognize my own sounds. They are not my sounds.

"A whip is what her hand makes of her."

I crave to hear satisfaction in the Madame's voice. But it does not come. It will never come. Instead I hear a rare sound of a large stone door opening it's maw wide and from it is spat a huddled, miserable mass of limbs and matted hair. This pile of flesh and bones is Amalia. My heart feels heavy.

Madame Carleen circles the serving girl, like a shark does a lone seal out far at sea. With a word she dismisses the bonds from my hands but I do not dare rise from my knees.

"It is time to reflect upon your last sin, Whip. Lying to your beloved Madame."

Amalia starts to whimper. I hate the sound. The wispy sack of flesh and skirts slithers toward me, and she puts the baton in my hands. Her voice drowns out in the emptiness my ears receive, consumed by the weight of the rod in my palms. Yet as easy as it would be to heed the pleading of Amalia's eyes to take this rod to the back of our Madame, I do not. I do not because I cannot. Because I am a whip and a whip only serves. I know nothing. I am nothing but what my hand will make of me.

"...- And you will strike her until I finish counting. Do you understand?"

I do not answer. I do not need to. I feel a visitor in my own skin, my legs foreign concepts as I rise the baton in my fist. If this girl was my friend she would not have lied. She would not have let me suffer. She would not have forced me with her. But now she will learn. There is only a whip, a madame, and a liar in this room.

Each strike is vindictive. I am intoxicated and nauseated by the screaming. There is only a whip and a liar in this room.

By the time the counting is over, and the screaming has gone silent and the candle wicks have long since burnt out, the girl I knew as Amalia lies motionless before me. I don't remember my name, my head spins with the blinding smell of gooseberries. As the Madame steps over the corpse I wrought I test my grip upon the baton slick with crimson. We are such delicate things, broken and unmade by careful lines or reckless swings. There is no one here but a whip and a Madame.

Are the confines of these rules so tight? Do all things bleed, and weep when broken? Does the Madame bleed? Is there blood beneath those folds of empty skin and hallowed out cheeks? The motionless corpse fills me with static charge. My own nails dig into my palm as my grip on the baton grows impossibly tight, my eyes feasting on the Madame's turned back.

There is only a whip, a mistake, and a corpse in this room.

[Stronger then You]

I stand before a mirror, tall and tarnished with age. In its image I see a Dambraii woman, taller than some with hips like a violin and ribs that protrude too far forward, a bust too small, scars folding over flesh like a lover's kisses across the canvas of my skin. Her face is round, narrowing at the chin with dull pea-green eyes heavy with the burden of exhaustion, all framed with a thick curtain of unruly flaxen hair. The fair complexion of the Dambraii's face is ruined by the sudden branding of black ink upon the lower half of her left cheek, forming an image of a stylized demon's head surrounded in arcane script.

In her hand is a knife; everglass in it's make with a solid red core. It is perfect in every sense of the word from the angle to the edge to the way it fits in her hand like it was born to the reflection's palm. I ache to be as direct.

The mark on my face burns a low heat, yet it is a discomfort I would rather do without. I lift the knife to my face to the time of the steady CRACK of a baton marching on in the back of my mind. Even now I see half of the Madame's silhouette in a small corner of the mirror. I know she is watching me. Cold, stiff rocks replace my fingers, disobedient in my will as I prime the knife above the 'too much' of my stomach. I want to be perfect. I want to be beautiful and then the Madame will be happy with me. Then Salhir will love me.

Foreign fingers wrap around my own; but they are not the old crone hands of the Madame. These are a man's hands, burnt with alchemical solutions and rough from magical trade. They are a warmth against the coldness of my own digits but I do not control my fingers enough to claim his heat. Salhir stands behind me, the expressionless face naked of skin and flesh knowing only bone and stolen eyes of opal. I watch his reflection in the mirror, the bone of his skull inching nearer to my neck. I forget my breath, and though the reflection does not show it I feel his lips against the nape of my neck. "Do I no longer suit you?" rasps the skull, I feel the lips move against my flesh but I know it is a lie. "Would you prefer a more aesthetic Magus?" I try to close my eyes shut but the reflection does not leave me. The knife slowly travels up the length of my flesh. "No, Salhir," my voice is pathetic. I hate the sound. "I am your whip. I want for nothing."

The tip of the everglass blade poises before my eyes, promising to draw blood and worse from me. "Nothing?" He replies, a hint of disappointment on his cadence sparks panic in my chest. Was this the wrong answer? But I am nothing. I am nothing but what he wants of me, I cannot, I do not want for anything. Is this wrong? What is it you want? Let me be what you want me to be. I cannot move or scream, but I feel his grip tighten around me before they lax and release. He says nothing to me; by the time I look away from the knife point and back to the mirror he is long gone, leaving the knife aimed at my face. I am alone. Me. Myself, and the knife. Please come back, don't leave me alone in here.

+++

When I awake it is in cold chills topped with sticky sweat. Air is light on my lungs yet I greedily suck in more to feed the terror in my chest. The sheets are tough and slick under my fingers, allowing me no grip to pull myself into coherence. Reaching across the landscape of the bed for a warm body to latch onto I found nothing but cold sheets. But the burning sensation from the fresh branding on my face proves to be my savior. A low heat of pain warms my face, and I fixate on it. Through recognizing the irritation of my nerves, the rawness of my skin I find the means to breathe and know calm.

Across the room, the Magus Red has looked up from his work, peering at me curiously with the empty white of his opal eyes. After he made his conclusions and determinations he resumed his work, but shifted a few inches over in his seat as if it was to mean something. I part the prison that is my bed, making my way across our room to the Red Wizard's desk. Strewn about the desk litters books of knowledge I do not understand, numbers and runes that look more like art than a wealth of information. Salhir works on some design I cannot comprehend and as I am trying to make sense of the scribbling, his hand gently wraps about my waist, and pulls me into the seat with him.

My Hand says nothing while he does this. Only do his idle fingers on occasion make circuits in the messy tresses of my hair or trace scars upon my shoulders. Even as he turns the page in his notes and studying, paying it more mind than me he grants me comfort with the attention of his fingers in my hair and the quiet humming in his throat.

"Salhir?" My voice is small and uncertain. His head tilts faintly in my direction, allowing me his ear. My heart flutters knowing his interest in hearing me, even while he was occupied with his tasks. "It was the mirror, this time." He doesn't look at me while I speak. I don't mind. I know he is busy. "I still hear the baton. It makes my spine crumble. I do not want for it," this is a lie, but still the Red Wizard made a thoughtful sound, his fingers still entrapped in my hair. He is so patient with me. So kind. My heart flutters like weak butterfly wings as I feel his hand rest idly in the nest of my mane.

I am helpless to the kindness, starved for the company. I let myself believe that maybe he loves me as much as I want him too.