The Slave

     Shuddered breaths, shaking hands. Trying to focus on the silent stream of water or its accompanying mellow buzz of insects didn’t help detract his mind from the sight in the slightest.

She was still there. Still etched out into the silver of his irises, figure eclipsing his pupils. Her charred body and the iron shackles that still cuffed her limbs even when the flames were put to rest.

He didn’t know what had happened afterwards.

All he recalled was being stunned into stillness. Muted and dim shouts directed at him. What might’ve been Myrin dragging his feet forward while Revi covered their escape. For once his Master’s safety didn’t even cross his mind.

While everyone else ate and danced around the small campfire, patting themselves on the back for a job well done, Linias was alone by the brook leaning against a tree for support. But, for once he didn’t find solace in the comfort of nature, as hard as they tried to improve his mood. His vines made a vain attempt of trying to play with him, or even so much as a little tickle but he swatted them away without so much as a vocal chide or a glare for a reprimand, and so they feebly retreated.

No matter what he did he couldn’t get his breaths to quell, or the subtle tremble of his limbs to rest.

Her words rung in his head like the quake of a funeral bell that would never cease its chimes.

It never bothered him before. Knowing that he was eternally Haetia’s to use.

But why now?

Why did he question it now?

How am I to believe that I’ll be free if you’re not?

He always acknowledged that he was Haetia’s servant, retainer, whatever he needed him to be and that he always will be. So why did that very concept shake his resolve now?

You’re maimed.

That was fine with him.

That was fine with him.

He rotated his wavering hands, gazing at the tattoos of red azaleas across the back and the scars that laid beneath.

I’ll free myself from this cycle of endless torment.

Was she right? That what always awaited at the end was a pillar of fire? Was that his inevitable fate as well? Would following and protecting Haetia lead him to that inevitability sooner?

Was he…

doing the right thing?

The dense bushes and shrubs rustled as a figure stumbled through them. Too careful and light to be Revi or Haetia.

Through his peripherals came a body whose scales, fins, and algae softly glowed as if covered by fireflies. Myrin.

For some reason he looked startled but it was more likely because he was feigning it.

“Hah…Umm…Sorry, just need to get some water, you know keep my skin hydrated haha…” Myrin gestured to his frame which lacked its usual shade of turquoise, being more muted now.

Linias constricted his hands into fists to force them to quell, then crossed his arms to hide his silent trembles. Avoiding eye contact with pursed lips, Myrin took it as a sign of reluctance but overall would put up with his presence for the time being. So, he quietly guided the water onto his arms, legs, and face.

In the faint background the sounds of a distant Revi could be heard, boisterously retelling their escape thanks to her quick witted thinking while Haetia adds his own bits to relive the story with her as someone who witnessed it first hand.

While Linias and Myrin were silent. Keeping to themselves a few feet apart.

Myrin glanced between the brook and his side, trying to find a way to begin.

With a swallow and a sigh, he mustered his words together, “...Linias. Are you…” He stopped, briefly shaking his head and finding a way to rephrase. “You’re…a dryad.”

Purposefully he reworded it as a statement to further prevent him from denying the claim.

“Proficiency with nature, affinity with animals, the way you spoke about…her, Nevenia…and your refusal to harm her. Then, the way she spoke to you...”

Continuing on he gave his reasonings behind his sudden claim, and judging by Linias’s silence and further grimace he knew he wasn’t wrong to assume as such.

“Do they…Do they know? Revi and…Haetia…?”

“No.” Was the first word he spoke in a low voice.

It came so abruptly that it made Myrin jump in his skin. If he had to guess, Linias sounded…despondent.

“And, I’d like to keep it that way.”

Rather than questioning why he disguised himself as a mage, or didn’t wish for not even Haetia to know, or even anything further, Myrin left it at that.

He sat knees against his chest, watching the stream faintly babble as dragonflies hummed past.

“...You look terrible, you know that? Emotionally, I mean. They may not be able to tell, and I know you can’t either, but I can tell. You can deny it as much as you want but you can feel things from time to time and you should. What happened with Nevenia…I’m sorry, I really am. I came with you because I wanted to help but–”

Feeling the tension in the air almost rise into sparks, Myrin stops and changes topics.

“Haetia…Your Master…He isn’t always right, and his words aren’t absolute. He’s a person just like you. A person that can make mistakes, just like you. You’ll never be able to see that if you stay the way you are now. Just mindlessly doing whatever he tells you to do. If you really pride yourself as a useful servant to him, you should correct him. You should tell him when he’s wrong and put him on the right path. That’s your job as a retainer, not being a thoughtless slave that runs both his Master and himself into the ground for fear of ‘stepping out of line’ or ‘going against orders’. ”

Forcing himself onto his feet, Myrin walks back, stopping beside Linias who continued to avert his eyes despite knowing that Myrin’s were on him.

“You remember what you felt when he told you to kill Nevenia? Remember that feeling. I hope you realize sooner than later that snuffing out your emotions and kneeling down all the time isn’t the answer. For your sake, Linias.”

His finned arm barely lifts, as to console him further, but his hesitation tells him to leave well enough alone. With delayed steps, Myrin leaves the retainer and fades off into the foliage behind him, back to the camp. In those same steps Linias’s mouth partially opens, then the words and thoughts become tangled and ultimately shoved back down into the uncertain ambivalent knots in his chest.

Exhaling his long held shuddering breaths, he fell to the floor. Head in his hands. Hands woven into his disheveled black hair.

Doubt.