The Beast's Slave

vi

River startles awake then stills as jarring pain shoots up the back of her neck. She hisses, raising a tentative hand to her now sore neck then the skull, rubbing it in gentle soothing circles. A moment passes as she adjusts to the unfamiliar room she currently lay in.

The divan she had passed out on, now the current source of all her muscle aches, is stiff beneath her body. She exhales softly, face scrunching at the putrid scent of her breath and body odour. For a heartbeat, everything seems normal, and she is close to rising with chores listing themselves in her mind habitually.

Mistress needed her morning herbal tea then linen washed, rosemary-scented candles lit and the curtains are drawn to allow light dissolve the musty darkness that blanketed during the night -- River halts.

All thoughts in her mind scatter like dry leaves during a whirlwind, her attention drifts across the unfamiliar room that takes shape. She draws in a shallow, measured breath as realization finally settles into her bones. Her warm skin grows cold.

This was not home.

She was a slave.

River instantly tenses like a serpent ready to leap away, frightful eyes darting towards the bed. The sight of it empty does not abate her rapidly beating heart, but it does relieve certain tension. Finely woven sheets and blankets are tossed about on one edge indicating that the creature had slept alone. 

Of course, she chastised in remembrance of the woman who deftly walked out of the room as nimble as a cat, sonorously licking her fingers clear of his seed whilst the silk gown flattered around her slender figure.

The creature did not rise after his session with her, simply lying flat on his back, one large palm resting on the flat of his toned abdomen whilst the other pillowed beneath his head.

River had remained stiff as a poker in the corner, perhaps waiting for him to finally acknowledge her presence. Throw a fit, possibly even kill her. She knew little of such creatures but one thing was clear as a day…. They were vicious and held fragile anger. She was nothing short of furniture before him, and now she was his personal slave.

Five minutes drifted to ten then thirty until her legs grew numb as the rush of adrenaline began to subside and her eyelids grew droopy. Still, he did not rise. River observed his body like a mouse, despondent curiosity, - the subtle rise and fall of his scarred chest, the curve of his spartan jaw. 

Sleeping. She realized after an hour drifted by and he remained in the same position. He’s sleeping. The sigh of relief that left her was light. Stiffly, she moved from the corner to the divan and perched herself on the edge without so much as lifting her attention from him. 

He did not move. Eventually, River curled up by the armrest, knees pulled up to her chest, chin tucked between. Fortunately, the room was neither cold nor hot and though she yearned for the inviting bed it would be considered sinful - suicidal - of her to even dare approach it.

She slept fitfully and lightly. 

“He’s gone,” River whispers, circling the room whilst looking about. It is dawn outside, slants of golden light peeking from partially open curtains. 

Beyond the thin wall, she hears the deep rumbling chuckles of guards as they walk past, the faint bleating of sheep and the clutter of pots and pans as female slaves begin to rouse and prepare breakfast for their masters.

Her steps falter at the realization that she had not woken in time to prepare for him breakfast, nor warm his bath. Did he eat breakfast? Did he take baths at dawn or dusk? River chews on the flesh of her inner cheek - he did not inform her of her duties to him, but that did not signify that she was to perform any activity other than servitude. He had simply ignored her existence throughout the night and morning.

Perhaps that is it. She was nothing but air. 

“Better than being acknowledged,” she confesses with a slight slump in her shoulders. River sniffs at her armpits, nose scrunching in utmost disgust. She definitely needs a wash but does not know where. 

Blowing out a breath of exasperation, River begins for the door but halts halfway, her attention drawn towards the far corner where his clothes lay in a crumpled heap. A slight idea nudges in her mind. Approaching them, she crouches low and quickly pulls them apart, trying her best to ignore the dark brown stains of aged blood and fur. Wolf’s fur. 

His clothes weigh heavily in her arms yet despite their outright dirt appearance, there remains a slight scent. River lifts the thick top to her nose and takes a quick whiff then another - slight musk and woods… almonds. Yes, that is the scent. 

Rising with the bundle of clothes in hand, she beelines for the day and steps outside. The weather is fine, a thin layer of grey clouds hovering high. It would not rain. River makes her way down a random winding path, conscious of straying eyes belonging specifically to the men, watching her. The skin along her scalp prickles as two guards up ahead walking in the opposite direction halt on the path, forcing her to walk around them with her head lowered in deference and fear. 

She hears the sardonic chuckles and snickers trailing behind.

“Ignore them,” one woman suddenly appears by River’s side. She too carries a bundle of clothes, but unlike River, hers are neatly folded in a basket. “All men are like that."

River casts the lady a sidelong glance, tongue clinging to the roof of her bone dry mouth in trepidation. Her silence is evidence enough to speak of her discomfort.

"Amaya," The lady is her height though physically she is older, at least thirty, with an oriental sort of physicality, dark hair held up in a tight ponytail. She is of medium build and wears an apron beneath her brown sac-like dress. 

River blinks then, realizing that the silence was simply patience for an answer. She gnaws on her lower lip, slight distrust flickering across her eyes which return to the path before. "River," she finally replies.

"One of the retrieved girls," the woman remarks mildly and River nods after a moment. She smiles revealing two missing from teeth, "Welcome to the family, River."

The family. The way Amaya says it, so casually, with vague indifference. The acceptance of her life as a taken slave, or maybe even free woman, and lowered into nothing but a submissive being of servitude. A sliver of anger and helplessness surges through River.

I need to get out of here. 

"If it is laundry you wish to do, there are women for the job," with a slight jerk of her acne stained chin, the lady gestures for River to follow her between two low bushes. 

Obediently, River follows close to her heels, eyes darting over the surrounding as the camp behind them abates in the distance and soon the ringing of female laughter takes clarity. She hears splashing moments later, loquaciousness renting the sullen air and replacing it with normalcy. 

The bushes part and River slows to a halt at the sight of a stream and women, at least ten, all kneedeep in wooden buckets filled to the brim with murky water and clothes. The laundresses are heavy women, for the most part, slow-moving, with broad, shapeless feet, their faces pale, moist, open-pored, the skin on their fingertips permanently pleated from long immersion in water. 

The feet rough from troughs outside the laundry hut, their skirts bundled up around their waists, kneedeep in piss, treading garments hour after hour. Dried blood doesn’t easily wash out and piss is one of the very few things that will shift it. As a result, the women’s legs always stank; River could smell them, though she suspects they’d long since ceased to smell each other.

Amaya hollers in a foreign language and the women glance up in unison, hoots of acknowledgement and laughter ringing out. 

"Who is the scrawny girl?" One woman questions out loud as River approaches timidly in the distance. Amaya shrugs her meaty shoulders. "A slave."

The women grunt in acknowledgement.

"Yes," one nods thoroughly, "but whose?" 

"Possibly the front guards, who else?" 

"Let the girl speak for herself!" Another snaps and one snorted in response.

River stiffens beneath their curious prodding eyes, her pink tongue traces a wet circle over chapped lips. "I don't know." She admits and they nod sympathetically. 

"Set your clothes here girl... yes that corner... okay good... they'll be done my evening..."

"Wait!" One woman suddenly jerks upright, pointing a gnarled accusing finger at River. Her eyes seem to widen then, "It's you!" 

River blinks, "Me?"

"Yes, yes! You're his slave!" The exclamation is something short of scornful, yet the woman's finger trembles as she continues. "You're the one he chose last night." 

"Honestly Jemimah, you're scaring the poor girl just let-"

"It's him! It's him!" 

The women sigh in exasperation, clearly accustomed to the woman's random dramatic outbursts.

"Whose?" One finally asks, an attempt at ending the charade.

The wild woman pauses, her mouth opens the falls shut. 

"Hadrius." She speaks in a whispered, fearful tone. As though the name would summon him.

River had never experienced such an abrupt change in atmosphere - the joy that pervaded seconds before now dissolved in an instant, smiles fell, glowing skins grew as pale as melted wax, dark eyes slowly fell on her.

River stares in bemusement, suddenly unnerved by the way they regarded her. "Who is-" 

"Get out." One commands sharply.