Below are the chapters of the original Woman's World story, as originally seen on fictionpress.

Chapter one

Hello everyone. This is the author, Savannah.
About this story: I was playing around with the idea of what a world would be like if it were ruled by women, and this is one of the fractured results. I hope you enjoy it, and I look forward to lot's of feedback.
IF YOU HAVE JUST STARTED READING THIS STORY AND DON'T HAVE AN HOUR OR TWO TO SPARE, STOP NOW AND COME BACK LATER. I get reviews all the time saying how addicting this is and then they fail their algebra tests. So stop now, study, pass, and come back later, okay? Love!

Chapter 1
“Ah, Welcome!” the young woman looked up and smiled at me, enthusiastic, curious, honey-brown hair falling over her eyes. “May I help you today?”
“No,” I answered, “That will not be necessary. But if you will announce to Beta that I am here…”
The guide frowned slightly, still maintaining her smile.
“Of course.”
Her soft slippers padded over the smooth marble floor as she walked through a door behind the counter I stood at.
I waited, tuning my ears to the faint noises that echoed to me from down the main hallway.
The soft click of a door opening and the sharp sounds of boots upon the floor turned me back to the counter.
A tall woman, with long, curly black hair and serious dark eyes strode forth, the guide following, wondering at all the fuss.
“Welcome,” she said. “May I help you?”
“You are Beta?” I asked.
“I am she.”
“I have a letter,” I said, retrieving the beige paper from my robes.
She opened it, eyebrows raising at the seal, and read the contents.
“Oh. We were not informed…” She met my eyes briefly, then turned and dismissed the guide still hovering around the counter.
Beta smiled at me. “It is an honor.”
I smiled back. “Thank you.”
“This way…”
I followed her down the tall halls, hung with fantastical paintings, and gilded with gold, until we reached two massive white doors.
The two female guards, dressed in red and white, as is typical of the service, bowed their heads and I met their welcoming smiles as we passed.
When the doors were opened, the loud noises I heard from before were made clear–sounds of bartering, talking, laughter, dancing- all the daily quiet music of the market.
A bright, clean sun shone down on the multiple levels, sparsely, but comfortably populated with women: warers and buyer, lovely entertainers, friends lounging by the fountains, all relaxing and enjoying the serenity of the large square.
It stretched for a long way, landscaped with shops and carts, small parks and class areas. It was a center of commerce, a center of commune. And only part of the immense Northern Hall that was one of the cornerstones of our world’s population.
Beta led me through the market, and I noticed women dressed as the one from the counter we had just left, the guides, helping some women find their way around the immense structure.
We soon has passed through the breadth of the square, and entered another hall.
Beta was nervously silent beside me. We were women, partners in all life, but I still received this reaction when people realized who I was.
It was disturbing. I was younger, and a stranger in what was clearly her familiar territory, and with any other woman she would have been talkative and friendly, but with me she was silent.
“I’ve only been here once,” I confessed to her, to block out the sounds of our feet as they traversed over the floors.
She nodded, looking uncomfortable.
“It’s my first time,” I said, touching the place in my robe where my letter was. “I’m not sure what to expect.”
“Well…” Beta started slow, but as she talked to me she lost her nervousness. “It’s very simple, actually, for all the importance it has. A Representative of the Matchmakers will usually guide you through the process. With you, however…” she looked at me sideways. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the Baroness herself came. It is an honor, after all.”
“I don’t mean to cause a fuss,” I explained slowly. “That’s why I don’t go many places. People place too much importance on me.”
“But you are one of the Artists! The best! The Empress herself has…” Beta broke off, as if in a state of awe so great she could not go on.
“But are we not all sisters?” I asked. “Are we not all equal?”
“You are right,” Beta sighed. “You are right.”
We walked some more in silence, nodding at a passing guard.
“Please go on,” I said. “Tell me more of what is to happen.”
Beta smiled at me then, and I became aware again that she was older and wiser. “Myself, I have three slaves. It makes life easier. They care for my estate, my children…and of course, the physical benefits are outstanding. It is comforting…they will always be there.”
“But do you not find it strange?” I asked anxiously. “They are just past being Nameless. They were nothing!”
“Hmm…” Beta considered. “It is strange –at first. I remember with my first one, for weeks I hardly spoke to him! I was so used to working for myself, I do not think I let him do much at all! But, of course, soon after I was with my first child, and he became much more useful. As my daughters increased, so did my slave count.” Beta shrugged. “It’s practical. And the friendships are lifelong. There’s nothing to be afraid of…”
She smiled upon me kindly.
“What of Partners?”
Beta shook her head, curls whipping to and fro. “Not for me. My slaves are not right to be on the same level as women.”
“My father was an Equal,” I said softly.
Beta bowed her head. “And I’m sure he was a worthy man.”
I nodded. “He was.”
Beta stopped suddenly in front of one of the countless, identical doors, and parted it. An elevator.
We stepped in, and I felt that lurch in my stomach as we climbed.
The levels were very tall, but we were soon out on number three.
A reception room, similar to the one I had first passed through, was in front of us.
The women here wore the deep purple color, assigned only to those who directly served the Baronesses and the Empress.
A lady smiled at me. “May I help you?”
I mutely handed her my letter.
“Of course. The Baroness is expecting you.”
I turned and bowed to Beta. “Thank you for your services.”
She returned the gesture, and left.
“Come with me.”
I was led into a place reminiscent of the market, but smaller and enclosed. Women of all sorts, and even a few men, were here, standing sitting, peering over charts, and the discussion of scholars and business workers all blended to form a loud, serious buzz.
We walked forward.
Self-consciously, I met stares to turn them down, but I could not do the same for the whispers that assaulted my ears.
“The Poetess!”
The volume of noise lessened a little as my guide and I passed.
An old woman, dressed in pale, creamy white, intercepted us.
“You have come!” Her bright, happy face beamed at me as she kissed both my cheeks, standing on tiptoe to reach me. Her long black hair, peppered generously -but made beautiful- with gray, hung loose over her shoulders.
“I am so glad you are here!” the Baroness said to me, taking my hand and leading me onward.
We exited through a side passage, and into more brightly lit halls. “You must come to the Main Room!” She said to me, happy as a child. “The Nameless are being sent for! We shall receive them there!”
Her giddiness infected me, and I couldn’t help but grin at her, even though my insides were twisted and sick with adrenaline.
“She is come!” the Baroness announced, rushing through the doors and surprising a group of attendants waiting there.
I had little time to marvel at the simple beauty of the room –gray stone lit by a single, wide skylight, and the magnificent steps leading up to a round, white table lined with black chairs. It was scattered with fresh gold-flecked parchment, the most precious of writing material, and my own hands ached to touch it and watch the ink fade into it.
I could have looked at just this all day, never mind the paintings and couches and tapestries that lined the walls, but I was pulled towards the middle of the room and distracted by the people waiting for me there.
A stout woman, clad in red, with thick brown hair, was the first to greet me, offering her large hand in greeting.
“This is the Representative Matchmaker, oh and this is my dear friend, Octavia-“ the little Baroness fluttered around the group of people, introducing me to everyone there.
A loud rap on one of the wooden doors off this main room interrupted the clamor.
“Places, everyone!” the Baroness cried out, and most of the attendants slipped away on their padded feet, and those who were indispensable to this task lined up behind the Baroness and I, who stood facing the large, brown doors.
They opened.
A large woman, her brown garments implying she was a director of labor, led the way, followed by an assistant, and then a line of persons such as I had not yet seen in my life.
They say it is disturbing, to see these coarse, non-equals brought forth, they say the utter maleness in them is strange, that their inferiority is almost laughable, but I felt none of these things.
As I saw this chain of boys unfold before me, I felt instead sadness, at the awesomeness of my race, of the race of Women. I felt power –I alone would choose to bring one of these out of their Namelessness. Give them the chance to rise to an Equal. Save them.
“These are the best!” The Baroness whispered to me. “The most hard-working, the most loyal, the most physically fit, and…” she leaned in closer. “The most aesthetically pleasing!”
I laughed at the mock-implication that she was young enough to lust after such as these. But I blushed all the same.
It is no secret that slaves are used for such purposes. It is expected. A way to consummate the contract of ownership. Most women are created out of coupling with slaves. Some women even find it necessary to own slaves specifically to share their beds at night.
There is much teasing involved when a girl takes her first slave. Having even few acquaintances, I was spared some of the indignities of ‘first rites initiation’ that are heaped upon those with already matured friends.
Naturally, I was mortified by the Baroness’s teasing. Sensing this, her wise eyes smiled at me, and I was introduced to the large woman who led in this troupe of young men.
“Singhya, this is the Poetess!”
“A pleasure…”
I only nodded, my throat too dry for words. I tried to form a question, and, seeing my discomfort, Singhya took charge, bringing the Baroness and I closer to the lines.
“The Matchmakers have been preparing for weeks,” Singhya said, inspecting the boys. “They felt it was prudent not to match personalities and requirement, and just let you make your own decisions.”
I nodded deftly.
“Well, let us begin. What sort of slave do you require?”
“It’s been difficult to work and keep up the house and lands by myself,” I started. “I need one who will work hard, who is equally adept at both household and outdoor tasks.”
“An all-round laborer eh? Well, the one-craft Nameless won’t be any good.”
She signaled, and her assistant rushed forward to remove those whose day of work was unrelated to my requirements.
“Not a short one,” I said, conscious of my own large height.
There were about twenty-five left.
“Anything else?” Singhya asked.
I considered. “I’m not fond of redheads.”
Twenty-one.
Singhya, the Baroness, and I walked the ranks, and I had the feeling of complete unease.
I knew that women were naturally superior to men, but I wasn’t comfortable examining them like wares at the market. They might be Nameless, but they were still human.
“Where did this one work?”
“In the kitchen, mistress,” he replied, eyes still downcast.
Singhya’s face contorted. “Enough out of you! I’m sorry, my lady.”
“No, it’s fine,” I said, my offense at his reply forgotten by her harsh reaction. “If it’s alright, I’d prefer to question them individually.”
We moved on, and I saw the Baroness wink at the boy out of the corner of my eye. He quickly hid a grin, and I smiled. I could see that everyone, even the Nameless, loved the Baroness.
“Where do you work, Nameless?”
“The Carpentry.”
His voice was low, his figure strong. He was older than me by a few years. Around twenty, at least. I wanted someone my own age.
I signaled, and he was dismissed.
“And you?”
“Kitchen,” he answered.
“A good cook, at least,” Singhya said.
I nodded, and gave no signal. I liked the looks of him.
“And you?”
“The fields.”
Yes. Looking closer, I could see he had been freshly scrubbed, cleansed of the dirt that must have clung to him as he labored daily.
“Very strong, this one. The foreseer, she says he’s got a green thumb.”
“Any experience in domestic areas?”
“None.”
I signaled, and he was removed.
We moved on through the lines. I didn’t keep very many. I was liking the one at the beginning, the one that the Baroness winked at, and thought I might take him home with me.
It reminded me of the time I had gone to the Animal Adoption Center. A woman there let me into the cages of dogs, so I could pick one, and I remember it was the liveliest that had attracted my attention. He reminded me of that dog.
“And you, Nameless, what is your work?”
His downcast eyes looked up at me, and glanced to Singhya, then back down.
“That one has never been known to speak,” she said quickly, making as if to move on. Her anxiousness to go onward puzzled me.
“Is there something wrong with him?”
“No! He’s just never been known to speak!”
“Where does he work?”
“Oh, um…I’ve forgotten…Dru!” Her assistant came forward. “The file?”
From a bag at her side, a cluster of papers came forth with much searching, and it was handed to Singhya.
“The paper plant. He refined and smoothed.”
Paper. I remembered the sleek, smooth, creamy sheets resting on the high table. I envisioned my own desk at home, littered with paper, white paper, brown paper, black paper.
My love affair with writing.
I looked closer at him. He was my height, maybe a fraction of an inch higher. He had dark, messy hair that fell over his face, bangs obstructing his eyes.
He would have been handsome, but when he had looked up at me, his eyes were dark, serious with blankness and sadness.
“Where does he come from?”
“Nowhere.”
“What?” My eyes left his face and turned to Singhya.
“He was found. It says he was found, around the age of five, hiding off a road. Not even near a Nameless site.”
“How strange…” Again I looked at him, the stillness of his posture, the hurt way he hung his head.
If these boys had been the puppies of the Center, this would have been the small, chocolate colored one in the corner, eyes large and almost weeping.
“Nameless, look at me,” I said kindly.
His head moved up, but his look was distant, as if he did not see me.
“Paper, did you say?”
“Yes.”
“Any other history?”
“Not since we’ve had him,” Singhya handed the folder back to Dru. “He worked in Kitchens from when he was found to about nine, then he was transferred here. So we’ve had him for eight years. Pure Paper work.”
Seventeen. My age.
“Isn’t the factory work handled by male overseers?”
Singhya’s eyes clouded over. “Yes,” she said, almost harshly. “But not for long. We’ve had…problems…”
“What sort of problems?”
“Oh, nothing major,” Singhya said, waving it away.
“He’s very cute,” The Baroness whispered to me, blue eyes twinkling.
In a way. In a way…
“I have chosen,” I said.
“But my lady…he’s…he does not speak!”
I turned on Singhya sharply, fully realizing my dislike of her. “I have chosen!”
The Baroness frowned at Singhya, and she colored.
“Forgive me, my lady. It has been an honor.”
Singhya, her assistant, and the line of Nameless exited the room.
He did not move.
The Baroness grasped my hand. “A wonderful choice! Shall you have him dressed?”
I broke out of my pondering of him, and saw the worker’s clothes he wore. “Yes,” I said.
“The colors?”
“Colors…oh! Yes…umm…white. White is fine. Brown leggings.”
I fingered the long, draping sleeve of my own white outfit, laced up the front with brown thongs of leather.
I wanted to watch him walk away, to study the gait of my new slave, but the Baroness distracted me, walking me towards those high steps, and that glorious table…
She sat me in a chair, and seated herself next to me.
“A wonderful choice!” She repeated. “I think he will do well for a first slave.”
I avoided that wry, teasing smile.
“And have you made preparations for the night?”
“Baroness!” I said, laughing, noticing the tension of the choosing gone.
“See, it wasn’t that difficult.”
I nodded, with relief at having that finished rushing over me.
“Do you think…” I asked hesitantly. “Do you think I made the right choice?”
The Baroness considered. “Myself, I prefer the big, strapping young men!” She expressed, making me laugh. “But I see he is good for you…”
“It concerns me he does not speak…”
“Has not spoken here, you mean.”
I looked at her.
The Baroness shrugged. “If he were handicapped, his file would have said, in his previous history. But Singhya did not say that…”
“What is wrong with the male overseers?” I asked, after a silence.
The Baroness made a face, contorting her wrinkles. “Well, they are male! Pure and unsophisticated. Not like the Equals. They are Nameless who were never slaves. There were reports of cruelty. Unnecessary force. Nothing much, but the councils didn’t like it.”
I nodded, and we rose as the doors were opened again.
An assistant came forth, leading my Nameless.
“Well now!” The Baroness said, smile back on her face. “Doesn’t he clean up all right?”
“He has no possessions?” I asked of the assistant.
She shook her head. “He brought none.”
“Well, I guess that’s it.” I turned and bowed to the Baroness. “Thank you for your service.”
“Oh, it was nothing! Do come again though, when you are ready for another!”
I smiled at her. “I promise.”
I left her on her chair and descended down the steps. The assistant bowed and backed away.
I looked upon him for a moment.
“Come,” I said, and we left.


© Copyright 2005 svonnah-la-fay (FictionPress ID:458192). All rights reserved. Distribution of any kind is prohibited without the written consent of svonnah-la-fay.



Chapter 2

Chapter 2
I was self-conscious, walking in front of him, wondering what he must think, feeling guilty for concerning myself with it.
The woman leading us out brought us, thankfully, through a hall that avoided the scholarly auditorium I had passed through earlier.
She asked me if I needed a guide to return to the main level. I refused, and she bowed, and left.
We entered the elevator, and, faced with the prospect of being alone with him so soon, I regretted my decision not to accept a guide.
We stood in awkward silence.
Realizing I was a woman, I was in charge, I turned to him.
He made no movement, just stood still: hands folded in front of him, head down, eyes down.
“Turn.”
He did so, feet shuffling to the right to face me.
“Raise your head.”
He looked up, eyes meeting mine, and stared with unabashed frankness.
I inspected his outfit, feeling his eyes upon my face, and hesitantly smoothed out a wrinkle in the shirt. I re-laced the strings that tied up the top of his shirt to my liking, and resumed my position facing forward.
He turned with me, and we stood side by side.
The Elevator doors opened.
“This way,” I said, turning right, and beginning the long walk down the curving hallway.
I opened the doors, and we were let out into the bright courtyard, still radiant from the late afternoon sun.
It was a pleasant change from all the pressure that had been building in the elevator and in the hall.
I walked forward, only glancing once to see he was behind me, eyes wide, and moved on.
It was a bit later than I had expected, but while I was here, I opted to make the most of the warers.
Receiving a basket from a handout center, I browsed through the small carts, choosing choice fruits and vegetables, enough for two people.
As the load became tiresome, I handed it off to the Nameless, his strong arms holding it better than my own.
We passed the bakery, and though the bread smelled so sweet and good, I bargained for a sack of flour, preferring to make my own.
When I turned, he wasn’t paying attention to me as he had before, instead, he was staring off into the shop next to the bakery.
I looked.
The Escritorium. Where I usually sent out for my paper and writing utensils. I had never been in it.
And his own interest, of course, stemmed from working in the Paper refineries for so long.
I had more than enough paper, having just received a delivery two days ago, but I had never been in the actual shop, and he was obviously curious, so I decided to enter.
It was a world filled with the scent of dry, old books, the sharp smell of hard, black ink, rustles of paper sliding over itself, and the quiet absorption that large masses of paper had.
It was wonderful.
I trailed my way through it, running my hands over the large, smooth sheets.
In the back, by the clerk, was the gold-flecked parchment, the most beautiful and expensive paper in existence. It was only used for the books and paper of the Empress, important documents of the Baronesses, and a rare sheet some rich woman might buy.
Having forgotten him, I was somewhat startled when I sensed his presence behind me. I turned, watching his eyes marvel at the glorious paper, shining from the precious metals randomly embedded within it.
I wondered at his past. At whether he had enjoyed working in the Paper Refinery. Apparently, he had, by the love I saw shining from those eyes.
“Nameless, go to the front of the store and bring me cream colored 2 ply regular.”
He reluctantly left.
Any woman would have thought it silly, what I did next. Any woman would have laughed at my sympathy, at my indulgence. But I didn’t care.
I bought a sheet. I tucked it away inside the folds of my robe. It wasn’t for me.
He returned with the paper, and I purchased that as well, handing it to him to be placed in the basket.
We walked out of the store, and I saw the light waning, moving into the early evening.
We needed to hurry, if we were to reach my home before dusk.
We exited the marketplace, backtracking through that large hall I had first entered, and I only met the eyes of that first guide as we left the building completely.
A paved road and simple gardens lay before us.
We walked quickly through the small town surrounding the Northern Hall, and after some time were in the moderate country estates.
I turned, and he was around ten feet behind me. He stopped as I did.
“Come up here,” I said, and he walked forward a few feet. “Closer.”
He came.
“You need not fear me,” I said, trying to meet his eyes, but he was once again facing downward.
I took the small sack of flour from him, swinging it in its cloth bag as we went on.
We finally reached my estate.
My mother lives in a quiet quaint village, and I would have received a town house as well when I came of age, but my status as one of the Artists allowed me to reside in a place of great property.
Houses were all alike, no matter where you were, each just big enough for those dwelling within. The concept of a mansion is rarely heard of –only the Empress lives in extravagant surroundings, and it is said even She sometimes retreats to a quiet country cottage.
Property is the only great thing standing as a tribute to one’s skill or status. All women are treasured, but some need more space than others to work at their skill, or to raise their abundant daughters.
My own land consists of a steep hill with front gardens and vineyards that levels out to hold the house, then the back woods. My house looks down over the gardens to the dirt road, accessible only by crossing a small, bridged stream.
We walked over the bridge and through these gardens now.
“You can see I haven’t the skill or time to make much of this,” I said, gesturing over the slightly overgrown beds and ivy-covered trees. “Mostly you will take care of these gardens. My own work doesn’t require your service.”
I was very formal, wishing to impress upon him, maybe for my own reassurance, that I was mistress here.
We finished the long path that led to my whitewashed house, and I opened the unlocked door.
Theft was almost unheard of –only a passing rogue Nameless every now and then would enter a house and eat of its food. My world of Women was entirely at peace, no one wanting of anything.
My house was perfectly normal in proportions: a small kitchen branching out into a sitting room, with a door that opened into a small bathing room, one hallway leading off the sitting room into my room, my work room, a closet, and a spare room, built for when a woman took her first Nameless and made him her servant. As time progressed, rooms were added depending on how a woman’s household grew.
He placed the large basket upon the counter, and began taking things out of it.
“Foods that need to be kept cold can be placed in the cool-box outside. Everything else goes in the cupboards.”
I walked down the hallway to the left right off the kitchen, after taking my paper from the bottom of the basket, and deposited it in a drawer of my desk, pressing on it a little to make it fit.
I went into my room, colored a light off-white purple, and removed my formal clothing, donning more comfortable robes: the pale to medium purples used by Artists. Purple is not only the color of nobility, but creativity.
I went back to the kitchen, and saw him standing idly, the items put away.
I approached him. Cautiously I took his hand, causing him to look up at me.
“This way…”
I walked slowly, leading him to his room.
“This is my workroom,” I said, walking by the door to the right. “You needn’t go in there. I clean it myself…this is my bedroom. I only ask that the sheets and my clothes be kept clean, and the candles lit at dusk, unless I am working…”
We moved onward.
“This is your room. It is plain,” I said, looking helplessly over the low, small white bed, the only furnishings the room had, “but as time goes on we will add furniture.”
He walked forward slowly, examining it. He looked out the window, opened the closet, and then sat on the bed, and looked at me.
I smiled slightly. “Wait here,” I said.
I walked quickly the few steps back to my room, and took in my hands the precious parchment from my closet.
I returned to find him standing at the foot of his bed, looking out the small window at the sunset.
“There were no windows, were there?” I asked, referring to his past work.
He looked down, arms folded.
I walked forward. “I have something for you.” I held out the parchment.
His mouth parted and his eyes opened in surprise. He met my eyes briefly, and hesitantly reached out to take the large sheet, almost afraid I would rescind my offer.
He held it gently in his hands, marveling…
I smiled, warmth filling me. It was unlikely, but I think in him I found the same love of paper as was in myself. No one else I had ever met really cared. Paper is paper, to them. This gold-flecked creamy wonder they would have found pretty, but impractical.
As if remembering me, and his manners, he looked up quickly, and bowed deeply. But when his head came up I saw his eyes weren’t as blank as at first.
I smiled, and nodded. “Do what you like with it. I’m going to go into the kitchen and make some food for us. Join me when you’re comfortable.”
My bare feet padded slowly back to the main room, happy, and still feeling strange at having another person in my house.
I was slicing the fruit when he came, bare foot, like me, devoid of the paper, shirt unlaced, and looking more at home.
He quietly and gradually took over preparations for dinner, taking my lead in preparing only fresh and natural food. There would be no cooking, this night.
I brought out my journal and a pen, scribing my thoughts down and the events of the day.
How easily I grew accustomed to the noises in the back round! I soon forgot he was there in person beside me, and was only in my own private world, writing him down on the lined paper, reliving today.
I was startled from my journal when he set a plate down to the side of me, having finished preparing dinner.
Utensils and one of my fine glasses were brought and placed in front of me.
He stood behind me, to the side, and bowed his head.
Pleased, I said, “Come and eat with me.”
We were soon dining over pears and peaches, salads and a bit of bread I had made yesterday. I carefully sipped sweet water from my own well, and watched him finish eating.
When he was done, eyes still downcast, he removed his plate and mine. He bumped into the island coming back, and I caught his wince of pain.
As if apologetic for his clumsiness, he took my glass carefully in one hand and his in the other, and turned for the counter.
My back was to all this and it wasn’t until I heard the splintering of glass and the loud thudding as he landed on his knees did I know he had fallen.
I was up and at his side, turning my chair over in my haste, and as I touched him he jerked away, curling up into a ball, clutching his side, eyes wide with fright and staring at me as if I was a wild animal about to pounce.
“I won’t hurt you!” I said urgently, reaching for him, but he still drew away. “If you’re cut, I need to see!” I said, but he shook his head, and held his side still tighter.
“Please,” I said, my voice calm and soothing. “I’m not angry. Let me help you.”
He still stared, but he let me take his hand and draw him up. His knees buckled suddenly and he fell back to the floor, the air knocked out of him.
I was puzzled, and extremely worried. While he lay heaving for breath and gasping with pain, I moved his hand from his side.
Blood covered his white shirt.
Peeling it back from his skin, I inhaled in horror.
“Oh, Goddess…”
His side was bruised, covered in black and green and yellow marks, and I could see where the skin had been broken and had scabbed over. It was re-opened, and blood poured slowly from that wound.
“Oh Goddess…”
I brought his arms around my shoulder and lifted him up, helping him support his own weight as we hobbled towards my room.
I don’t know why I brought him there. It was closest, I guess. And it wasn’t until I had lain him on my sheets and fetched my medical kit from the closet that I realized he was here, in my bed.
I didn’t care, though, however inappropriate it was.
I disinfected the wound, and rubbed a healing salve on it, finally wrapping him with clean white cloth.
His breath was shallow at this time, probably from the pain of his moving ribs every time he breathed.
He was sweaty, and the hair clung to his forehead. I brushed it out of the way, and his eyes opened at the touch. He looked at me, as if to apologize, as if to plead, or say thank-you, but he was mute.
I searched the kit, and pulled forth a soothing chamomile-infused balm. Scooping out two finger’s full, I spread it on his chest, massaging it into him until the cool vapors cleared his breath until he was calm and breathed easy.
Now I knew why there were problems with the male overseers. The council was right to want to get rid of them.
My body filled with a hatred for men. And yet…here was one in front of me, helpless, wounded…
I rubbed his shoulders, caressing his body until his face unknotted and he was peaceful.
I dragged spare bedding from the closet at the end of the hall, and lay on the floor by my bed.
Laughing to myself at the strangeness of this first night, I curled up in the knit blankets and slept.


© Copyright 2005 svonnah-la-fay (FictionPress ID:458192). All rights reserved. Distribution of any kind is prohibited without the written consent of svonnah-la-fay.



Chapter 3

Such shock, there is! I got six reviews in the hour that I first posted, which has totally upped (I'm an Animorph dead-head. shrug What does one do?).
K, I'm anxious, and I've got about fifty chapters after this to post, so it's not like I have to write all these, so I'm putting chapter three up now just cause I like being complimented.
About this story's writing style: The way this story is written is not typical for me. It's very short, with very precise descriptions. Which is hard to read if, like me, you love to skim. However, I beg you to read each word individually, cause it helps a lot. Another reason this might seem short is cause it took me a long time to get down exactly what I wanted to say, so I was in the 'mood' of a scene about a hundred times longer than it takes to read it, so my romance bits are a bit short. Good luck! Review!

Chapter 3
I awoke with pain in my back from the flatness of the floor and shots of confusion in my head, as I did not know where I was. I sat upright and breathed deep, calming myself as I realized I was in my own room.
The events of yesterday flooded me, and I looked up at my bed to see him.
He wasn’t there.
It was then that I smelled something cooking, something that smelled…good…unutterably good…
And then he came through the door, walking stiffly, a small tray in one hand and a fresh violet in the other.
He kneeled beside me, face stern with hiding what must have been pain, and set the tray down beside me. There was a plate on it, one of my simple but beautiful sandy white ones, and fresh, golden bread was laid around its surface, the light coating of butter just melting in. The last of my fine wineglasses stood at it’s right, the rim condensed with small droplets of moisture, caused by the cool milk inside it. Blood red, peeled mangoes lay majestically to the side of the bread, and a small vine of green grapes draped dramatically off the dish.
I only glanced at this simple but tasty plate, too concerned with he who kneeled before me.
“Let me see you…” I said, reaching across the plate.
He acquiesced to my order, pulling his shirt up and watching me as I ran my hands over the bandage.
I stood up, and he rose with me.
“Sit here.”
He sat.
I carefully peeled the cloth away, and grimaced at the sight.
“Wait here…”
I ran to the kitchen for some water and clean towels, and returned to the room for my patient and my kit. I surprised myself by the tray of food I had forgotten, and stooped to move it out of the way.
“Take your shirt off.” I did my best not to blush at this order, saying it in a no-nonsense practical way, almost fearful he would refuse, but he did not, and I soon was engrossed in my task of washing and dressing his side.
“I’m sorry,” I said, rubbing the stinging cleanser over his raw flesh, wincing myself at his grimace. I wrapped new bandages around him, and he replaced his shirt.
“No, don’t leave yet,” I said, as he made to return to the kitchen. “Thank you.” I motioned at the tray, violet hanging precariously at its side. “It would have been alright for you to have stayed in bed. You didn’t have to get up so early.”
He just looked at me blankly for a moment, then walked away.
I sighed, and settled down to eat my breakfast.
When I was done, I brought the tray to the kitchen, only to be refused entry into the small space by him. He took the dishes from me and added them to a sink half-filled with bowls and stirring utensils used for the making of bread.
“But I-“ I stopped my protest, staring at the vase he had found and already filled with water, anticipating my wishes. I took it from him, adding the purple flower to it’s depths, and he turned back to his cleaning, so I walked away.
I went into my workroom, and shut the door. It felt nice to return to the bit of my life that hadn’t changed since yesterday. I was intrigued, disturbed…I was in the mood to write.
I set the small vase on the windowsill above my desk, and pulled out a new sheet of paper.
I began to scribe upon it…
The growling of my stomach was the only thing that awakened me out of my thoughts and I was surprised to find the sun at midday.
I got up from the room, and walked out of the hallway to the left.
“Oh!” I exclaimed, running into him. I put a hand to my chest, feeling my heart run quickly. “I’m sorry,” I breathed. “I…I forgot you were here.”
His eyes, which had come to life upon our encounter, faded to dim again.
“I just…I just came out for a little lunch,” I said, sidestepping him, and going to the fruit basket.
He went outside, and as I was just frowning to myself upon the lack of appealing food in the house, he returned with a plate of food for me, cold from the cool-box outside.
“Thank you!” I said, trying to express to put my gratefulness into words. “Have you eaten?”
He nodded, and turned away, going down the hall to his room.
I sat at my table, noticing the kitchen was spotless and the main room was tidied. The windows were washed, and the fireplace cleaned out from last winter’s fires. Rosemary stood in sprigs upon the center of the island, and the curtains were open to let more light fall upon everything.
I ate in silence, thinking about my work, being distracted by him. I thought with some guilt and discomfort I had not properly made him my slave yet. He was still Nameless.
I thought on what to call him. I did not know many male names, having hardly been around them, except for the slaves of my mother’s house, and my father…
My mother was simple and traditional. She believed in only straightforward names. Nothing fancy or elaborate. Her slaves were named Dy and Gene. My father’s name was Com.
Ah, well…there was time. It is only the second day. First, really, if I thought about it.
Besides, we had not yet…
I blushed. There was something about him…something hurt…I couldn’t be that way with him. I had the feeling it would be akin to abuse.
And it wouldn’t matter anyway…
I sighed sharply, putting down my cup of tea, and got up, returning to my workroom.
When the sun started to turn red filling the room, which faced west, with an unpleasant dark light, I left it, and, nearly exhausted, went into my own room.
I opened the door, and a dull happiness and surprise filled me, making me smile.
The windows were hung with long, lacy blue curtains, cloth I had had in the storage closet for ages, but was too distracted to hang up. My sheets were changed, devoid of the evidence he slept in my bed last night. The pillows and covers were a light, pastel purple –he must have noticed the paint, and they were fluffed and arranged to be a pleasing display. My bookshelves were dusted, the books righted and actually in line with one another.
And, best of all, the candles were lit.
Vanilla candles, all that creamy cloud white, were shining every place that could hold one and not expect to be burned. My dresser, with its mirror, was lined with them, my nightstand, now cleared of paper and pens and spare books, sported a large, thick candle. There were thick clusters of them at the foot of my bed, far away enough from the frame so their heat would not leave black marks upon the wood. A few medium sized ones flickered by the window, well out of reach of the curtains, and smaller ones stood guard around them.
I sighed in content, closing my eyes, their warm glow heating my face and going through my eyelids.
I heard his soft footsteps behind me.
“Thank you,” I said, smiling hopelessly. “This is beautiful.”
He nodded, just like he had before, but there were the traces of a smile on his lips.
He left me, and I went into my room, lying on the bed and enjoying the feel of the moment.
There was a soft rap at my door.
“Yes?”
He came in slowly, my dinner in his hands.
“Haven’t you done enough?” I asked, as he set the plate and glass on the nightstand, crowding around the candle. There was, of course, no answer.
He bowed, and turned to leave.
“No, wait.” I surprised both him and myself by calling out. “Thank you for your work today. This was beyond my expectations. Have you eaten?”
He shook his head slowly.
“Then go prepare your own. And be sure you eat as well as I will!” I said, eyeing the tenderly cooked meat and steamed but crisp vegetables.
I was soon alone.
I finished quickly, trying to savor the food as long as I could stand to, but eventually swallowing anyway.
Those few years in the kitchen must have imprinted themselves onto him…
I reclined in my bed, reading a book, and thinking about going to get my journal to write in it.
He returned to me after a bit, took the plates and carried them out again. Some more time passed, and I was brought a lamp, to replace the rapidly burning candles.
He went around my room slowly, blowing them out, removing the ones that were already burnt so low they could not be again re-lit, and I’m sure he noticed that I watched him carefully as he did this.
“Come here, please,” I said, when he was done.
He came to me, hands full of the soft candles, smelling of their vanilla scent.
“Does it hurt you?”
He looked at me, and nodded slowly, combining it with a small shrugging motion.
“You’ve done a wonderful job today. But I rather fancy making my own breakfast tomorrow. I want you to rest. You’ve done amazing things in this house already, but I don’t want you to overexert yourself. You need time to heal.”
His eyes clouded over with dull anger at the mention of his healing. I understood.
“I will go out to the Northern Hall tomorrow,” I said. “The Baroness will listen. I will stop this.”
He did not react, as if he did not hear me, but seeing I was finished speaking, he left.
“Good night,” I whispered as he closed the door behind him.
The sun was long down, and I soon tired.
Blowing out the lamp, I settled down into my sweet-smelling sheets and breathed deep, catching the last scent of the vanilla before I slept…
I was awakened suddenly in the middle of the night. I did not know why. But there was something wrong.
I could feel it. My subconscious mind must have heard something I could not pick up, but it had awakened me and I was afraid.
I got up, padding to my door and listened. Muffled noises came from his room.
I walked down the hallway, and opened the door.
His sheets lay in a pile on the floor, the window was closed, but the bright light of the moon shone on him. And he was twisting and writhing in his bed, as if fighting off foreign enemies that I could not see.
“Wake up!” I yelled to him, pinning his arms down lest he hurt himself. “It’s only a dream!”
He fought me, and as he thrashed around I caught sight of his face, open in a long, silent scream.
Both our breath was heaving when he finally quieted, and my hands slid off his sweat-filled shoulders.
He shuddered, whether from fear or cold I could not tell, but those dark eyes were flickering open, and I did not want to leave him alone after that.
“It was only a nightmare,” I said, holding him in my arms, not knowing if he was fully awake, not even really caring.
He panted long after my breathing had returned to normal, and I held him until he was calm again.
I looked down into that sleeping face, examining it with a freedom I did not have when he was awake.
He really was handsome…not strong or chiseled, but cute, in a fashion…his skin was smooth, and of an agreeable color…his lips weren’t thin or thick, but just right. He had curved, deep brown eyelashes, the color of his semi-long hair. He was pale, but not sickly, like one who has never seen the sun.
I liked that face immensely at that moment. It was with pride of ownership that I looked onto him, like a mother might look onto her child.
But that thought made me sad. And he was not my child…
I slowly got out from under him, and smoothed the covers over his body, before going back to my own bed.
There was a history there, I thought as I climbed into my own covers. And I’m sure it isn’t happy…
What you tink? Tink, tink, tink? Review please!


© Copyright 2005 svonnah-la-fay (FictionPress ID:458192). All rights reserved. Distribution of any kind is prohibited without the written consent of svonnah-la-fay.



Chapter 4

Hey, thank you all for the kind reviews. I've been asked for more information on the slave, but there's not all that much I can provide at the moment. Keep in mind that I've almost finished the story, so it's not like I'm writing all the chapters recently. So, with that understanding, know that we do find out more about him and his past, but not now! So just relax, enjoy the story, and we'll let come what may, alright? Thank you! Have fun!

Chapter 4
I was up early the next morning, and I peeked into his room. He was still asleep.
I went to the kitchen, heated yesterday’s bread in the stone oven, and changed the water in the vase of the rosemary. I went out to the cool-box, and retrieved some meat and cheese. I folded it into long, brown, waxed paper specific for that use, and placed it in my carrying basket.
I prepared some food to eat right now, and walked with a plate of it, and my medical kit, into his room.
I tried to awaken him gently, but he jumped anyway with surprise, and I felt guilty.
“Here,” I said. “I’ve brought you some breakfast. As soon as you eat we’re going to the market. We’ve consumed more food than I’ve counted on, and you need some clothes.”
I made no mention either of last night, which I doubt he remembered, or my other mission, which I doubt he forgot.
I went to my room, changing into my blue robes and hard slippers, and met him out in the kitchen.
“Alright then,” I said, and we went.
I stopped at the bridge to pluck a large, flat stone from the icy cold water, and stuck it in my basket, underneath the bread and cheese, to keep it cold.
We walked to town, and I talked to him of many things: of the errands we were to run, the clothes he would need, any furniture that might brighten up his room, the house, the property…
We were outside the gate to the Northern Hall when I found my chatter ran out.
It was early, and a line of women stood, waiting for a guide to be assigned to them. Feeling confident of my navigational skills, I skirted past them with a few other women and walked onward.
The center was much louder than it had been when we were last there, but that is typical of the mornings.
Although he attracted a few interested glances as we passed, servants accompanying their mistresses, for whatever reason, were not altogether rare and we were left alone.
Firstly, I took him to the far side of the square, where items for servants might be bought.
He waited patiently while I haggled with a stingy woman over the cost of his clothes, and after that ceremony was done, we pretended to agonize over the fitting of him, although that part was merely traditional.
“That there is a good one,” the woman said, as we peered over cloth together. “He looks strong, intelligent…”
“He does not speak,” I said, and she took a second look.
“Well, all the better! And how is he…”
I blushed. I had feared this part. “No,” I said briskly, trying to laugh it off. “There has been no consummation.”
The woman nodded understandingly. “My own daughter just received her first slave. All I hear about now when she visits me is whether or not she should consummate the bargain. Hah!” she laughed out loud. “Is just the silliness of young girls, you’ll realize that by your second slave.”
Uncomfortable in this situation, I changed the subject back to the cloth.
“Hmm…” I said, debating several colors and styles. “Why don’t you give me a minute to think about it?”
“All right,” she said, already eyeing a new customer.
I touched the cloths delicately, watching him out of the corner of my eye.
“Which one would you prefer?” I asked him quietly.
It was not proper to address a slave such, to ask their opinion. Slaves are customized to fit the woman, to fit into her household. But I wanted to please him. I wanted him to be happy. These feelings disturbed me. It was not normal. Not for a slave that has been in service for only two days! And he wasn’t even officially as slave yet!
But I still wanted his eyes to lose that blankness.
He motioned casually at a dark green color.
“Really?” I asked. It would not fit into the rest of my house. I wasn’t fond of dark colors.
“How about this one?” I pointed at a lighter green. It was more pastel, and smoother than the other.
He shrugged, eyes re-glazed, as he went back to staring into the distance.
“Have you decided yet?” the woman asked, her gown swishing as she returned from losing her bargain.
“Yes, this green one here,” I said, motioning at the darker cloth, aware of his re-focus on the task at hand. “Two of hard labor, one of light. But this brighter green one here for travel. And this blue, for normal wear.”
“Five outfits?” she mused, questioning at my extravagance.
“Yes, five,” I said coldly, reaching into my pocket for the ticket of credit I carried.
As an Artist, I was one of those the Empress provided for herself. This license I carried let me purchase anything, from anyone. They had only to produce a book of credits, and I had but to sign, and it was done. The seller could redeem it at any Hall.
Her eyes opened a little wider at the license, but not wishing to anger me further, took it without complaint, and produced her credit book. I signed, and took the outfits wrapped in their own bag from her, and we moved on.
He touched me as we were walking past the clothes warers, and I stopped, facing him.
He smiled a little at me, and glanced at the bag I held in my hand.
“You’re welcome,” I said, feeling pleased. He took the bag and my basket from me, and we went on.
“You’ll need a dresser to put those in, of course,” I said, heading for the clusters of furniture sellers.
I chose a tall dresser, only one drawer in length, painted plain white, and made arrangements for it’s delivery to my house.
I also purchased a shelf system, white, to be hung upon the wall. A chair, and a bed stand, one white, one of wood, completed the shopping.
We walked to the carts where merchants sold their paints, and I bartered for colors of varying green, so light you almost couldn’t see it, for the walls, like mine, and moving on to darker greens for the drawers and stand.
We finished by buying several pairs of shoes for him, and retired by a fountain to eat the cheese and meat for lunch.
I threw a penny into the water, wishing for peace and joy within my household, as is traditional.
And then it was time.
“Go back to the house,” I said, not looking at him.
He slowly got up, and walked away from me.
I watched him leave, noticing the new stiffness in his back that hadn’t been there seconds before, and wondered at what must have happened in the Paper Refinery. It was obvious he had loved his work, but equally as obvious that horrible things had occurred down there…


© Copyright 2005 svonnah-la-fay (FictionPress ID:458192). All rights reserved. Distribution of any kind is prohibited without the written consent of svonnah-la-fay.


Chapter 5

Chapter 5
I returned home later that evening. I had not spoken to the Baroness, but to a representative. I took advantage of my station enough as to be assured my voice would be heard, and the vague threats I left her with, threats of the wrath of the Empress herself, would be enough to be certain the assistant relayed the proper people my message.
I was exhausted.
Being near large amounts of other people did that to me. It was too confusing, too stressful. I was grateful for the quiet walk home.
I opened my door slowly, fearing for some reason that he would not be there. But he was, waiting for me, dinner in hand, his new dark green clothes on.
“They look nice on you,” I complimented, but he only bowed and left.
I ate my dinner in silent boredom, finally retiring to my workroom, but I did not work, only wrote in my journal.
In the beginning, the journal was a terrifying process for me. It was made clear the Empress would one day read it, and I carefully guarded my true feelings from it.
But, as time wore on, and each completed notebook was sent off to Her palace, I grew more at ease with it, and let my real voice and feelings come through.
I understood she demanded a notebook to keep up with me, to see how my life was, how I progressed and grew. I could do no less than record the true me, my true thoughts.
I heard him walk by my room and the sounds of dishes being washed. I heard him as he walked back, retiring to his own room, to sleep.
I lit a lamp, and kept journaling late into the night. And still I was not tired.
I took the lamp with me into my own room, and read from the Greats for hours.
Then, quite suddenly, I became aware of something wrong again.
With foreboding at the suddenly too-quiet house, I went again to his room, and my horror was confirmed.
He turned upon his bed, wrestling with the sheets, panting loudly and screaming in a hissing way that made me want to leave and run and never return to this nightmare.
But I took him, and I spoke to him, demanding he wake, demanding he stop, and as his nails scratched me and I cried out he finally came to consciousness, stopping suddenly his struggle in my arms.
He was shocked, both at the dream, his revival, and my presence with him. He saw my hands, raked with blood, and withdrew from me, ashamed.
He winced in pain, and I forgot my own, ripping the covers back to see the blood leak through the white bandages.
“Oh,” I whispered, sad at his fright and hurt.
I dressed his wounds again, as he lay silent, staring at the ceiling.
I looked up from my work and found his eyes glistening with tears. I touched his face, and they spilled over, eyes closed in painful remembrance.
“It’s okay,” I whispered softly, and took him onto me as I had the last night, folding my arms around him, and I hummed half-songs I remembered from my childhood.
He was tight in my grasp, unmoving, so rigid, but he slowly relaxed as he grew more comfortable with me, and my eyes grew heavy as I held him.
He curled up into my chest, clinging to me as if I were his only salvation against the terrors in his mind, and we fell asleep together.


© Copyright 2005 svonnah-la-fay (FictionPress ID:458192). All rights reserved. Distribution of any kind is prohibited without the written consent of svonnah-la-fay.



Chapter 6

Chapter 6
I woke the next morning, painfully aware of my surroundings, and his absence from them, and walked almost shamefully back to my own room.
His soft knock at the door brought me out of my drowsing, and I admitted him shyly.
He did not meet my eyes, but he set down the tray of food and left.
I did not know what to think. Last night had been more emotional than almost anything I could remember.
And with a slave…
But that word was foreign to me. I didn’t think of him as a slave, or even as a Nameless. In truth, I guess he was neither.
But the relationship there, the closeness -that had been something shared only by Equals, and it disturbed me greatly.
I was almost disgusted by it, but then I remembered the way his tears spilled out of the corners of his eyes, and I could not help but feel a surge of protection for him.
I dressed in my daywear and brought my dishes to the kitchen, where he ran a rag across the counter top, cleaning it.
“And how is your side today?”
He nodded, not looking up.
I sighed. “It’s okay, you know. Don’t feel it was inappropriate.” Even though, of course, it was. “I don’t know what’s happened to you…I don’t know how you were hurt, but I promise it will never happen to you again. Not in this house. And I will not allow it to occur anywhere else, if I have to go the Empress herself!”
His head bowed more deeply, his gaze only on the slow movements of the rag.
I stepped back and looked at him, really looked at him. There were dark circles under his eyes, a slumped look in his shoulders, and a dirty, ruffled look about his hair.
“Stop,” I commanded. “Do not work today.”
I went into the main closet and removed my hair products and soap, and bid him bathe in the bathhouse with them.
He emerged an hour later, still slick with the steam of the hot water, and he sat before me as I combed his hair into a smooth part, and re-wrapped the gauze of his wound.
I took lotion mixed with soothing herbs and rubbed it into his skin, until their oily presence had sunk in and he was smooth again.
When his head began nodding, the dark skin around his eyes stood out to me more, and I sent him to rest in his room.
I was restless.
I tried to work, but no inspiration would come. The house was clean, so I wandered outside and absent-mindedly stroked the petals of the blooming flowers, sucking on a bit of mint as I surveyed my land.
A chill wind came up, as it was wont to do in these spring months, and I turned my feet back inside.
With a patience and self-motivation that surprised me every time I used it, I returned to my room, and although I could not bring myself to write, I tidied up a bit.
The room was littered with bits of paper, whole paper, ink pots and used pens, pencils of lead and even some bottles of colored fluid, my books, my several journals, and a few cabinets in which my final works were kept until copies of them could be shipped off to the Empress.
Finally, usable papers in one pile, and the obstructed ones, and drafts in a great heap to the right of my desk, I pulled forth a new sheet of paper, and, lacking the words to glorify it, began instead to draw.
I was not as skilled in art as I was in writing, but I could make out a fair picture when in the right mood, and sketching had often brought me ease from an exhausting day with a draft that would not come together.
I drew of surrealistic things, of faceless people and normal objects made bigger or more focused. I copied the image of a pile of books on the corner of my desk, and for awhile played around with pressure and the thickness of lines.
I sketched out a picture from a dream I had had: the great city of heaven resting on a cliff of pouring water, great falls leading down into a courtyard where people walked, their haloes reflecting both the light and water, casting rainbows into the air above them.
I heard his soft rap at the door.
“Come in.”
He came, the first he had been in my workroom, and his eyes ran over its simplicity: my desk, my shelves, and the heaps of paper and books.
“Did you sleep well?”
He nodded stiffly –only once, and I feared the nightmares had teased him in his slumber.
His eyes glanced behind me to the picture I drew, and he looked with interest upon it.
“Have you drawn before?”
He shook his head, almost as if it were forbidden, and looked hungrily upon the lines.
“Would you like to try?”
He shrugged, not meeting my eyes, for we both knew it was unseemly for a slave to participate in such pointless recreational activities.
“Well,” I said. “Then take these spare papers away, and take these pencil stubs. I do not need them.”
He gathered up the materials slowly, and I figured if he was really interested in drawing, he would understand my meaning, and take a few of the papers and the pencils.
I do not know how he occupied his time for the afternoon, but when I was bored with my sketches, I went out to the kitchen to prepare dinner.
He came out of his room and set the table for one –me.
I finished cooking and he cleaned the kitchen as I ate.
I went outside to watch the sun set, and when I came back he was not in sight, and I figured him to be in his room.
I retired to my own, sighing at the candles –not lit so profusely as before, but there were enough to be pleasing, and sat in my bed, avoiding reading the semi-completed drafts I had brought with me. Instead I read, glancing guiltily at them only from time to time.
It grew late, and I finally took them up.
Every month, I send off my final drafts of my works to the Empress. Those she finds acceptable are published in books that are made available to the masses. The end of the month was drawing near, and I needed to go through my drafts and give them a final edit and revise.
I worked late, thinking only now and then of the luxury of sleeping in, and read my way through the large piles of paper.
The moon passed half way across the sky, and it was then I heard his soft knock.
“Yes?” I called, surprised he was still awake.
He opened the door, walked in a few steps, and bowed low. He stood straight, looked up at me, and then away.
He walked hesitantly around the room to the opposite side of the bed, and waited, not looking at me.
“Did you dream again?”
He nodded, a flush creeping up his face.
“I’m sorry. If you wish, I can give you a sleeping herb, and you will not dream.”
He shook his head slowly.
Uncertain of himself, and looking definitely uncomfortable, he bowed low again, and then drew back the covers of my bed and slid into it.
I was shocked at the forwardness, that he would dare to presume enter my bed when I had not called. My mouth opened in surprise, and I could not speak.
His eyes met mine, and they were begging…
It was unfit. It was not right. It was unheard of for a slave to approach the mistress, to enter her bed without the call.
But I saw that his fright of the nightmares was more powerful than social standards. I saw in him a lost child, not a near man of my own age, and my blessed maternal instincts spoke for the logical side of me.
I gave a short nod, and went back to my reading, painfully aware of his presence.
I was curious, though, how this would turn out, and a little tired, so I put down my papers and blew out the lamp, settling down into my pillow.
He was far away from me, so near to the edge of the bed I’m sure he feared falling off.
“Come to me,” I whispered, and as he drew close I sensed his pain and fear, and drew him onto me, one arm around him, and one stroking his soft, long hair.
I wondered at myself. What I was doing in such a position with him? What would any woman think? Why did I allow it?
And, in analyzing myself, I came to this conclusion:
I lived alone, a favorite of the Empress. My life was different from all others: I worked at one task, and there was no direct compensation, just the addition I made to the world of Art. I was young for such an honor, having only been two years into womanhood. I was decidedly outside of normal parameters. If I chose to act in such a way with a slave, it was my choice, and besides, who was here to see it but me?
As for the boy himself, in the great feminine instincts granted to all women by the Goddess herself, I cared for him. I looked upon him like that chocolate puppy in the corner with the sad eyes: He needed help, and love, and this time someone was there to give it to him. He may not yet be named, or be my lover, but I felt a fierce protection for him.
I hugged his warm body closer to me, in defiance of social standards and my own unease.
If being with me guarded him from the demons of his past, so be it.


© Copyright 2005 svonnah-la-fay (FictionPress ID:458192). All rights reserved. Distribution of any kind is prohibited without the written consent of svonnah-la-fay.