"NO—You can stay and watch." He ran the belt through his hands, the sound soft and menacing.
"What are you going to do?!” she wailed. “You already beat me last night—"
He was the one who had really broken the decanter, not her, and he was the one that had chosen not to tell Dorthelda about the change in her obligations.
"Unfair, isn’t it. Oh, that’s right—I don’t give a shit. Shut up.”
It seemed like an eternity before she heard the first swish of the belt through the air and felt the cutting crack against the flesh of her swollen, injured upper back. She gritted her teeth, struck as much by his cruelty as his hand—he'd aimed purposefully for the welt left by the decanter. The initial sting was gone almost instantly, but it left a burn behind it, and she could feel it radiating through the wound.
"Lord Telyra. She's bleeding."
He slapped her again, harder, and she moaned involuntarily, biting her mouth, tasting blood.
"You know, girl ...” he said conversationally, “I could use the other end.”
"Lord Telyra, she's just a girl!"
He paused. "So?" he said sharply, his voice echoing. "You were the one boxing her ears just now. Or did I not just see that ...? You were the one who got her into this. Now watch the consequences of your cruelty, and if you look away, perhaps I will take my hand to you next. Your hypocrisy disgusts me. In fact, if I ever see you box another person’s ears ever again, you’re done here. And I do mean done."
"You can't threaten me; I’m a freewoman," Dorthelda sniffed.
"You are my subject. What I’m doing is sane. What you were doing is not.”
“My mother boxed my ears when I was young.”
“Are you actually so stupid you don’t know what that can do to a person?”
"How many times are you going to lash her?"
"As many as it takes."
"For what—?"
“… Get out of here,” he growled. “You stupid bitch.”
Without warning, he walloped her again, much harder than before.
Julia clenched her face up against the wall to smother her startled cry, curling her fingers into the crevices between the stones.
"The next time I take my belt off behind you, slave, it may not be to whip you …”
His whispered threat carried across the space between them. Rage and humiliation welled up inside her, tears cascading hotly down her cheeks. Was this all she’d achieved in getting his attention?
I finally get out of that hellhole, only to get raped?
The soft sound of his voice sliced into her consciousness, an unshakeable command:
"Let it out."
She wept into the stones, shaking her head vigorously.
"Let it out ..." he breathed.
He struck her again, and she broke away from the wall enough to turn and look at him.
They were alone now. He stood watching her coolly, his eyes on her back. She was glad that Dorthelda was gone, leaving them their privacy, and sickened that she was glad of it.
"I hate you—!" she snarled, hating even more that it was becoming a lie with every blow.
“Turn back around!” he barked, drawing his arm back.
She turned back to face the wall just in time. The blow, like his voice, had amplified, and she heard her own scream only after he tore it out of her, and with it, her long-trapped rage.
He accelerated, grunting with exertion, unsparing with his blows. Gradually she lost contact with her surroundings, becoming numb to the texture of the wall, the firmness of the floor, the chill draft through the window. Only the pain seemed real, rolling in as if from far away, surging through a sea of emptiness, sweeping in on tides of euphoria, opening up vast spaces inside her. There was no point in fighting the screams anymore, so she let them out, wishing he’d strike her even harder, reckless of anything but the abuse of a lifetime and the belt searing into her flesh like cleansing fire. Sobs shuddered through her uncontrolled, and for the first time in her life, it didn’t matter.
~~~
When she opened her eyes again, she was kneeling on the hard stone floor, crying convulsively.
Lord Telyra stood very still a few feet away by the ascent of the stairs, the belt held loosely in his hands. She couldn't see his face in the gloom. Her back was damp with what had to be blood.
A long time passed. When it seemed like she had cried all she could and could cry no more, she looked up, empty and exhausted. The night sky through the window was the brightest patch in the corridor.
"Master," she whispered. "Lord Telyra—Have we been here for hours?
He tossed the belt over his shoulder and strode forward.
“It’s been a long time, yes. Are your ears all right?”
She nodded. She had nearly forgotten about Dorthelda, and only now noticed that her ears were still ringing.
“Nobody is going to do that to you ever again. Let’s clean you up.”
"I don't think I can stand ..."
"Take my arm," he said, kneeling down.
Slowly he raised her to her feet. Trembling, she leaned into his chest, the belt buckle clinking between them. Confusing feelings surged out of the emptiness and he took her hand in his, running the leather through her fingers.
"That was … so degrading,” she whispered. “Will it come back—?"
"Will what?"
"The rage," she asked shakingly.
Her master said nothing for a moment, the muscles in his arm tensing against her, and then, quietly, "It always does."
IX: Hate is Like Mortar
Two weeks later, she sat above the landing, sniffing and wiping her eyes as she watched the colourless light of afternoon track its path below into extinction. Every time she thought it might be okay to get up and go on, another sob choked her.
Lord Telyra, remarkably, had done nothing. He was an imperfect gentleman, his bark much louder than his bite. The work he gave her was tedious and mind-numbing, but comparatively peaceful. He had hardly taken a hand to her, and when he did, it was like he was purging her of the agony of her hopeless life. But heartbreak had found its way in all the same.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs behind her. Startled, she turned, covering her face when she saw who waited silhouetted by the window, the light catching in his blood-red hair and streaking it golden like a private sunset.
He stood behind her for a few seconds as she snivelled. A draft blew in through the window.
"What's wrong, slave?" he asked at last, his voice loud in the stairwell. "I thought I might find you here. You're late—again."
"It's Theresee. Oh gods, I didn’t want you to see me like this. That’s why I’m … late."
"Who's Theresee …? And why not, slave?"
"She's my—she was my—my best friend," she explained between sobs. "She shares my bunk. She don't—she won't talk to me no more. I didn’t want you to think I was … weak."
“You can’t hide from me—you’re mine.”
“I can … try,” she sniffled.
"Tears are not weakness. To hide is what is weak. Why won’t she talk to you?"
"Because I'm … with you now."
He stalked down the remaining steps.
"That is bold, slave. But go on."
"She's mad at me cause I don’t work with her no more. But I can't, I can't do it cause it en't my work to do, it never was, none of it ever was. It en't hers neither, but I can't convince her of that. All she does is try to tell me that I ought to be doin' it. I can’t believe she’s telling me what to do. Her."
Lord Telyra laughed lightly.
"She says I'm a traitor. I don't understand. We grew up together, we've slept in the same bed my whole life. I haven’t done … a thing to her."
She flinched as he lowered himself beside her.
"Is she older than you?"
"What's that got to do with anything?"
"Because I asked ...?"
"She's fourteen."
"A
nd let me see ... she's not speaking to you because I’m in your life now? Doesn't sound like much of a friend to me. And hearing this may pain you … but I doubt she ever was, considering firstly that I made this decision for you, and secondly that had you made it yourself, it'd have made you no less of a friend to her."
I’m in your life now. Past those words, the rest hardly registered. They filled her with the same exhilaration she felt every time he touched her. It was intolerable, but Lord Telyra being in her life apparently meant the world to her.
They were silent for a moment while he gazed abstractedly into empty space. He rubbed his circlet absently as though it were an itch, and then he caught her eye.
"What is it, slave …?"
"Master—"
"Yes?"
She took a deep breath, her whole heart on the line. "I thought my whole life I hated you, that I wanted to kill you. But I think I just wanted your attention.”
She braced for the inevitable reproach, then felt his arm encircle her back, pressing gently against the bruises he’d made, his hand coming to rest heavily on her shoulder. A thrill ran down her spine.
"Then you are not completely repulsed by me ...?"
"You're not what I expected ..." she conceded distractedly.
"What did you expect?"
"Well, I heard you was a soak—"
"I am."
"—and I thought you must be really ... wasteful."
He tilted his head curiously.
"All I did all day was cook for you,” she explained. “So I figured you'd be fat and stupid and waste lots of money, to make up for what I thought would be ... inadequacy," she finished, preparing for a slap in the face. “That you’d cover yourself in pretty trinkets, like those people at the feast had, bought with my blood, my sweat, my tears.”
When he didn't hit her, she ploughed on. "I thought I needed to get out of here, at any cost, out of this castle, out of this city ... out of this life. I got nothing to look forward to. I didn't ask to be born into this. I didn't ask to be a slave. I didn’t want this—I didn’t want my whole life.”
She waited for him to acknowledge this, but he said nothing. His hold on her shoulder hadn’t loosened.
“Before … I hadn’t seen more’n a corner of the castle. They keep us penned up down there.” She snorted. “Well, you know that. I thought … that the part I did see each day would be the exception to the rule. The servants’ area. That the rest would be shining, osten—what’s the word?”
“Ostentatious?” he supplied.
“Ostentatious. It’s all the same though—economical. As you are. And I respect that. But the thing is, there is waste here. Do you realize I've spent my entire life cooking food for nobody?”
“For my staff,” he corrected.
“Your staff ... which exists only to maintain this place, even though it's practically empty; it's like a well-oiled machine that does absolutely nothing, it just keeps going on and on and on …! You hold no court. The only people who live here are your servants. You don’t need them. You don’t need me. I can’t blame you for the fact I was born, but everything since has been your fault. And now … now that I've met you, I ... I shouldn't be feeling this way—"
How can I say this—I am a traitor—
"Go on," he whispered encouragingly.
"I … needed you. I needed my master, and you weren't there! Now I realize I was never actually angry that you owned me. I was angry that you were never there for me. Do you have any idea how earth shattering that is to me? To realize that? To admit that?"
"Why didn't you come to me? Why didn't you find me sooner …?"
"How could I? I'm just a kid! You don't even know how it is down there, because you don’t care.”
“—I don’t care because hardly anyone else does. Yes, I mean your peers. Why should I care about someone who doesn’t have the guts to come and face me? Think about your friend—do you think she’d ever consider it? Even now, knowing what she does—that I pulled you out of the kitchen—she shuns you instead.”
“And would you help her?”
“I’d consider it. Can’t you see that?”
“For most of my life, I didn't even know your NAME!" she yelled, her voice breaking up. "You were just the master. Not even my master. And I heard what you were like—what was I supposed to do, go pound on your door? If I could'a found it? I was told never to even look at my superiors. To talk to you, to seek you out, to dare stand up to you …? You do realize you are utterly terrifying to a twelve-year-old, right? What would you have thought—”
"—Shhhh, it's over now—I'm here now—"
"I still hate you," she said, turning her face away.
His fingers clenched her chin. “Are you twelve …?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know how old I am.”
“You are now. The day we met. That’s your birthday now.”
“I hate you,” she repeated.
"I know," he said, pulling her toward him, "I know. I know what you’re fighting with, and that you are at all is—"
He pressed her struggling head into his shoulder. She resisted to protect her pride, grateful when he clenched her head tighter. He gave a satisfied grunt when she stopped fighting, and stroked her head, his clear, cold voice resonating in his chest.
“Hate is like mortar. I’m talking about hatred of life, not hatred of me, the kind of hate that fills you so completely you sometimes think it was there before you. Once it hardens, it takes hold—and it doesn’t take a lot of time—and when it does, it has you forever.
“I was like you …” he went on, “I know what it’s like not to get what you wanted. Believe this or not ... but when I was around your age, I started to realize for the first time that I was to inherit all of this and what that would mean. I had other plans for my life. It has been nearly two decades since the day life came crashing down on me—and nothing’s changed. That’s longer than you’ve been alive."
She clenched her fists. “Life never crashed down on me; I never had a life! Other people are privileged to feel loss; it means they had something to lose in the first place, like you did. The freewomen in the kitchen complain all day long about the price of bread or their shitty hours, a relationship that en’t working out, or a stupid leak in their roof. But they got bread. And a home of their own. And a job, and free time; they don't understand that with them it's always just one thing or another—not everything. You can fix one thing.
“They don't know what it's like to get a whole existence you didn't want. They can compare their bad times to their good times, but I have no good times, and I have no future in view but utter futility. How can you fix a lifetime? All I could ever have realistically chosen to do is die. I haven’t been given any other choices. They know nothing! NOTHING! And I thought you would be the worst of all of them—" She looked in his eyes, inches from hers. "… No one looks at me. Do you know what it's like to have someone look at you when no one else does? Not through you, not past you, not at your collar, at you."
He appeared to do a double-take, his lips parting slightly.
" ... And I’m not supposed to look at anybody either," she went on, "cause I'm lower than dirt. No one above my station’s let me but you—" she broke off crying again. “You look at me, and you want me to look at you.”
"No one looks at me either. But, you are lower than dirt—" he added in the vague tone of habit, and then stopped. There was a soft rustle of bare feet on the landing below. Startled, she peered down from their perch.
"Oh gods," she whispered, opening her mouth to say something, but Theresee huffed loudly and stomped away.
"Was that her ...?” He laughed, squeezing her shoulder. “What poor luck—"
Julia nodded mutely.
"I don't think you should come to this wing of the castle to get away from people anymore,” he stated wryly. “It doesn't seem to be working. Just hang out in my study if you want to avoid people." He grinned.
“Don’t people bug you like, all the time?”
“Yeah … but they don’t want to.”
“What if I bug you?”
“Then I’ll beat you until you leave.”
Running a finger through the dust, she buried her face in his shoulder again, laughing mirthlessly. "That was the last straw I'm sure ... I didn't tell her—"
"What?"
"This, I mean, I didn't know, and I don't ... Master—I don't know what to think or feel anymore, about anything. I don’t understand what this is."
"… Are you frightened?"
"What, of you ...? Not at the moment. Yeah though. I am."
"Good," he said crisply. She looked up sharply, and he returned her gaze seriously.
“You’ve killed lots of people, haven’t you?”
“I have.”
“More’n a dozen?”
He laughed. “Lots more’n a dozen.”
“More’n fifty?”
He nodded. “Couple hundred, perhaps. I do not count my kills.”
“… In battle? Is that where you got this scar?” She reached up, but he didn’t push her hand away. Instead he closed his eyes, and she ran her finger tremblingly across his eyelid.
“Do you like it …?” she asked, tracing the other fainter scars on his face. “Killing people?”
“Yes,” he breathed.
“Cause they were bad people?”
“No … many of them were. Some probably weren’t. Some didn’t have a chance to become bad. But still … no,” he murmured.
“Then why?”
“It makes me feel alive. I like the power … the violence. When you end a person’s life … that is a very intimate act.” He caught hold of her hand, opening his eyes, and she shivered.
“What kind of person are you?”
“I’m a bad man,” he answered with a sadistic smile.
"Is something wrong with me …?”
"Why?—Because you're starting to notice that you're different from your peers? That the way you feel ... isn't what they do?"
She nodded miserably.
"No, there's nothing wrong with you. If you were like them, do you think I'd be here with you now? Your independence is worth many times their cowardice. It doesn’t take a lot to revolt against me. Maybe to try to take my life—but not to hate me in their hearts. They think that makes them strong, but it doesn’t. It makes them common.”
Talystasia: A Faerytale Page 19