The world has started to seem lonely, and a very empty place of late. I found myself actively searching out familiar faces, those beyond that of Master Fonce and His artisan. I have not spoken to Red since Brave Warrior Master Fonce gifted her to another. I have not seen Takara...since the fire. I am wary of asking too many questions, but have come to the point where I just..want to know . "The truth will set you free." It might break your heart in doing so, but I would just rather...know.
I was unsuccessful in finding either one of them. Gossip is slight in regards to either, and I even had a hard time finding out where Nya is. Nya of all people. People...slaves in particular...seem to come and go with a breathtaking regularity. It was a sobering thought, a feeling that clung to me throughout the day. It was the reason I lingered longer with the group of other women tending the tasks of laundry in between lengthy conversations. Usually I race off to my next task...some chore for my own home wagons or that of the Mistress Asria, or Oren. Today I stayed put, mending at the stream while the tunics and skirts and pants soaked up the Central Fire. There was no Dee to run off with.
Sometimes the talk was benign.. hints and ideas and reminders for the preparations for the moved. Other times the words became more lusty and colorful. There were comparisons of Masters and accolades in descriptive and brazen language. My cheeks flushed now and again, and more than one I found myself grinning and lost in a decadent visual impression. There is a freedom to this state of slavery. A freedom of expression and thought, of action and reaction. The freedom of fantasy and passionate dreams. I soaked it all up to carry back with me..like tasty morsels of a dish never sampled.
Then someone asked me if my Mistress was going to beat me for tending to His clothing...and Hers...with such intensity. I was a little taken back, but that isn't really new. I am not...wordly..I am coming to discover. I glanced down to the tunic draped over my lap, thread dangling from my fingers and connected to the next stitch. I started to say that this wasn't my Mistress' garment...but that really wasn't the point. I looked rather dumbfounded toward the slave and she replied without me asking. Her Mistress had lashed her soundly just last hand, and she turned to expose the marks still left on her skin.
Would my Mistress fight me over a few stitches to secure a hole in her skirt, or Master's pants, or an unplanned opening in the toe of a sock? I swallowed thoughtfully, then recalled being struck harshly for using water. And too, I had my own little hissy fit over pillows and a tart in the wagon. I guess it is possible, but it seemed...trite. I asked the slave what her Master thought of it all and she informed us that her Master had better things for her to do than laundry. We all smirked and laughed, for she was...here...doing...laundry.
Trite..yes. And petty. But every one of us is protective of what we can claim as ours. Had I not started working my way back into Master's wagon again? While it was always clean and fresh smelling, I had to do something ..anything...to leave my own personal imprint. I would not disturb what was done, but enhance what was there.
The chain that I guarded jealously...the one that held me for all those days, and began an infusion of change within my heart was always polished to a high sheen. Snacks and small treasures were left in the evenings. Fresh water filled a washing bowl. And a new black pot would move around the wagon ...always in a new spot...holding something different. Tonight..it was fuzzy fat willow branches taken from the marshy area down the stream.
Gone was the lyrical scents of wax and oil that Red had left. In it's place was the aromas particular to both Master and Mistress. The leather and musky depths, a tinge of herbal held aloft above an underbase of dust and beast, tempered with the oily tang of paint and dye. Them. And a little me...a tiny pot of clay, infused with honey and spice.
Much stayed the same in that particular fashion that seemed to suit Master. But if I looked, I could see a bit of change. A trunk shifted slightly, a table straightened. When I was on my hands and knees scrubbing floors, I could see the scrapes and indents into the wood. I laughed out loud, wondering if the Mistress would carve into the floor like she had done in her own wagon. Something to let Him know she missed Him.
Like I did.
The edge of the step is a little charred. The butterfly has only one wing visible now. A stain dots the place where a heel might land. And on the left side is that open ended heart that would have marked my wealth. Now it marks my faith.
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