My intention was to visit the house/manor of a certain lord. As per the restrictions placed upon me, I did not go to the main entrance, but went to the back gate. The two servants that greeted me there were expecting me. The courtyard was repairing itself after something terrible and mighty had blown through.
The lord was waiting for me. His laughter reached me before his scent did.
There were words.
“I see you have it. Good. Don’t worry about that quarrel, my dear. That’s between me and [unintelligible]. You have been absent. I was starting to worry about you.”
“Bullshit. You were letting me get my mope on.”
“That too. … Did you figure it out?”
“No. There is one word that makes no damn sense. [static] doesn’t apply to me. Not this time. Not ever.”
“It doesn’t apply to [him], either.”
No. It doesn’t. Then how…
“Such an ungracious host I am! Here. Have a drink. I insist.”
At the touch of fluid to lips the manor, the courtyard, the servants, everything, undid itself and I fell into the darkness of unbeing.
~later~
It’s a parade? No. A triumphal procession. I’m being led by the chain attached to the iron collar locked around my neck. My hands are in manacles and locked together in front of me. The chain attached to the collar is also attached to the manacles. My ankles are manacled as well, with just enough chain between them to allow me to walk, but not enough to allow me to run.
The crowd is deafening. The victor is far ahead of me. My handler is a child. Intentionally chosen to show the crowd how defeated I am. There is slack in the chain. I am willfully walking behind the boy. I am dressed in rags. There is not a single scar to be seen on me.
The crowd doesn’t know who I am. They hurl the usual epithets at those successfully conquered. They hurl derision at me, offers to buy me at the boy leading me. These men that have never known battle want the right to rape me as their due. False victors wanting to steal the spoils and accolades for themselves. This is the thought that finally wakens me and it angers me.
I jerk back, trying to take a full inventory of what I was seeing. The boy grabs the chain and pulls me down to my knees. “Not yet, bitch. You’ll get your beating in time, but not yet! Submit, slave!” But in his eyes, I saw a different message. Not yet, Weaver. This isn’t the time to reveal yourself. Play along for now.
I allow myself to be humbled by the boy’s prepubescent voice. I nod in understanding, knowing that if I spoke, the glamour would be undone. He jerks me to my feet, yelling at me as if I were a confused dog. The crowd is angry. He has to show he has control over me. This is going to hurt my pride.
He holds the chain tight and takes up more than just slack. I’m not allowed to stand fully, but must bend over just enough to make my balance precarious. My ass is revealed under the rags. As the procession continues to a bright shining edifice in the distance, the crowd eagerly jumps into the procession to slap my ass with vigor.
Each strike fuels my anger, but somehow I am able to keep my composure. No scars appear to betray me. No sounds herald the Unmaker in their midst. I understand now why my consciousness had to be buried. I place my trust in the boy, and yield to him completely.
This will be settled later, to my satisfaction. But for now, I will endure.