Legends of Belariath
Chymaera Malvoisin
The Return
”You're free,” she mumbled to herself as she stood before the little vanity mirror reflecting her wraith-like image back to her. The room was like any other rented room along the road; dingy, rustic, barren. One tavern amongst many that she had found herself in, one more place to will away the restless dreams of her too long nights. Even so, she did not feel free. Every morn she woke she could feel the lingering presence of him like a curse bewitching her very existence. His was just another face among many to haunt her, as if determined to imbed the feeling of worthlessness in her heart and mind. Yet just as swiftly as that emotion of self-pity rose up, called itself 'worthless' in her own heart, she snagged it with a ruthlessly sharp mind. With disbelief she stared at that cruel, bitter, selfish little emotion and found herself slowly sinking down onto the stool before her vanity.
When had she become this creature? When had she allowed these people to convince her, even indirectly, that she was worthless again? So none of them had collared her... the thought brought a dry smile to the curve of her plum dark lips. Why in all the heavens did she care about that? The voice at the back of her head felt it prudent to remind her: Because you were born a slave, had a slave and deep down... you know that makes you feel wanted - to be taken as a possession. The hint of a memory, she realized, but as vague and intangible as all the other glimpses she had into her history. Yet gazing at her reflection, she found her chin lifting a fraction more with returning pride. Perhaps so, she thought, but what good is being a possession if they do not cherish and adore you in the manner that they expect you to worship them? Ah... and that was it. From the handsome, cruel lapidary, Zophiel, the first of her lovers that she could remember since the darkness of forgetfulness, to the mercenary Oruedin Key - she found she had not desired their collar specifically. Instead, it was the love and appreciation she expected to come with it. There was a deep, instinctual part of her soul that would always be terrified of the collar, she knew and felt - but she could nto remember why...
She still, after all these years, could only garnishe the vaguest of memories of her past. But whatever stole her past memories did not cloud those that came after the fog of shadow - those were achingly clear and in some cases... still managed to enrage her. Fingers slowly rose to part a silken strand of her hair, glossy black against the silver of her skin as she began to weave it and reflected on those thoughts. Zophiel had been wonderful, an exquisite lover, but all that remained was a deep seated sense of regret. As if there could have been so much more that was never explored... More poignantly came thoughts of Zarias, the handsome Aeromancer. The sense of self-loss and worth accompanied that novel of memories, as well as a lingering thread of longing. She had wanted him so badly; both dark cruelty and sensuous comfort. Though as she reflected on all the memories she had of them, she found the realization that it hadn't been his collar she'd wanted as much as she had simpled craved to be needed. Only reaffirming and further crushing that emotion of worthlessness. After all, she was half human and it was natural for a mortal creature to want to be loved... wasn't it?
Again, dark plum lips pressed into a thin line at the recollection and the bitter pain left lingering and tainting her fragile heart. To keep herself calm, lucid, she began weaving the silky strands of her mane into a single fine, slender braid while the rest cascaded in a silken mass down her back, pooling upon the floor behind her stool. Another male followed on the heels of that fading recollection, though to call Roquai a man would have been a severe injustice. The troll had been her mentor, a secret anchor to her existence in Nanthalion, a hidden desire. Like all the women that worked at his Shoppe, becoming apt pupils in the arts of enhancing the flesh with ink and steel, she too had been subject to his carnal lusts. But, she had refused to become his toy, to let herself be drawn to where he could see her emotion and use it against her - untrusting even as she hoped. The ironic truth came when he chose the pixie to bear his symbols of possession - not her. As if her distrustful caution had dealt her the cards for rejection. Once, the memory of the pixie had drawn angry, seething emotions - now thoughts of Shaeya Asura brought a smile to her dark lips, all malice cast aside.
Secretly she had adored, craved and wanted the ugly brute... and still she was not the one that had earned his adoration. Surprisingly, she came to the conclusion that it did not matter anymore, that it was not a driving fuel for her anger any longer. Instead, it was just a meager little silken strand to cling to in a desperate bid for petty rage. As moments of reflection ticked by, she could feel herself easing clenched fingers and letting that whisp drift away - leaving her a little saner, more peaceful. Then, last but not least there had been the mercenary, Oruedin; the lingering wraith in her thoughts and heart. For a moment, she had to stop braiding as the agony of betrayal washed over her like a cold, mocking acid. Not once, but twice she had been broken at his hand and what glory and mockery it had earned her. The first had been three years past and she knew her own anger and unnatural, confusing resistance to the collar that she had equally craved and despised had caused his abandonment... at least in part. Damning herself as she remembered how she'd adored the way he bent her back and pushed her down. How she had loved to resist him only to feel the pressure of his boot against her cheek, pinning her to the floor. The times he'd raped her, forcing himself like a machine upon her struggling, furious body to show her that he could and would. In that simple, neurotic way she had felt... worthy.
Then there had been that fateful night not many months past when he had truly abandoned her. Dragging her naked, bruised and nearly unconscious form from the Inn to the baths. Not alone... but encouraging one of his many other admirers, Avarwraith to join them. Like some bitter, possessed thing, she had said cruel things. Reflecting upon them, she could see how he could have taken them personally - though they had been to insult herself and the other elven woman there. It had sparked his fury like nothing else, and she could still feel how his fingers had bit into her throat, squeezing off precious breath as he loomed over her, rage incarnate. Yet speaking to her so softly, that the elf had not heard the words that still rent her heart: “Perhaps... if I am... rid of your face.... from my mind... my heart.... it will return to stone... and I can... live, in calm... so you... cannot torment.... me. I hate... the way... you... look at me... like... I am... worthless. I hate... the way... you make.... me feel... anything at all.” In a twisted way, it had been endearing, the mercenary speaking common so brokenly, struggling to make the common words in his anger. She had needed to respond, and she had with her last breath, “Love you... hate you... dying still... hurts less...” Then blackness had taken her. But he had not killed her, instead the elf had pulled him off. Awaking slumped on the bath ledge, he paid her no more mind as Avarwraith kept his attention... she was able to slide to his clothing, retreive key and slip away without him coming after her. That alone hurting more than the bruises around her throat. It was the simple fact she could take all the abuse in the world at his hands, if in the end he'd love her as she so desperately needed. But he had not.
Her home he had kept clean and cared for while she had been away, the scent of him lingering in the sheets of her bed, on her couch... everywhere. He had lived there, waited for her. But he would not again. The mercenary never returned to her home, he never came for her. When next she saw him, days had passed and her bruises had finally healed. Bruises she'd refused to seek out a healer to ease, not wishing anyone to take them away from her except cold, callous time. It was at the Inn, where she found him gathering supplies... for his new home. A confrontation of sorts, more than anything her words trying to give herself, trying to find an answer from him to justify the need for him... and yet all he had managed to give her was, “You're free.” The weight of abandoment still sat like an enroaching plague in her belly, twisting and writhing, devouring hope. It was clear, he was done with her. He had broken her, she had finally wanted him, needed him... was willing to become his - and his interest in her had disappeared.
The warmth of a wet splash on the back of her silver hand brought her back to the present. In confusion she glanced down, and fear coiled into realization as she rose jerkily to her feet, wiping her hand on silken skirt to dry away the evidence of tears. Trembling, she felt the rivulets burning salty courses down her cheeks and her hands lifted to dash them away furiously. “I will not cry for them!” she hissed hoarsely. “I wouldn't then and I won't now! Not for even one of them!” But the tears continued to flow, denouncing her protestations and blurring her vision as she stumbled for the sanctuary of her bed. For long hours, but what seemed and eternity she purged those sorrows. Not just for the pain Oruedin had caused her, but that all those lost threads of hope and need that had been attached, if faintly to special, mesmerizing men. It was some time later that she found herself standing at the tiny, pitiful excuse of a window there in her meager Tavern room, watching the sunrise. The cool night zephyrs had dried away the last of her tears and onyx eyes glimmered like liquid pools reflecting the glorious dawn scene. Through the night, she had surrendered to the grief, letting drain from her the last vestiges of self-pity and sorrow for all the 'could have been' and the 'never was'. In the quiet, her voice was as silvery and soft as the unique tone of her flesh, “Only a fool remains bitter for an eternity.”
Also, through the long, sleepless night she had re-evaluated her life, her choices and felt diminished. She missed Nanthalion. Not because it was such a wonderful place, but simply because it had become her home - the only place she could remember being her home. Would she let a handful of inconsiderate, callous bastards drive her away from forging a place for herself there, in the only place she really knew? All these months traveling had done nothing for her, she was not happy in her every wandering state. She needed something more, a purpose a direction. But of her own choosing, she realized. No matter what she did from that point on, it would be her choice, not someone elses. In the end, she concluded and made plans to return to Nanthalion. There was no hint of hope in her heart, no desire or expectation to see old faces or reacquaint with those old lovers that had left such deep scars on her soul. If they were there, and she saw them, she would treat them the same as everyone else, to the best of her ability... even in her own mind she refused to dillusion herself with over-confidence. It would be hard. With gold garnished from her talents plied during travel with needle and ink, she made one stop before booking passage back to the Empire's Capitol. With stoic black eyes, she lay herself upon the artist's chair, instructed her tattoos and scarification to be stripped away while a healer waited to the side to heal her skin smooth once more. All that remained were the silver rings piercing her nipples.
The catharsis of her long night had finally left her free, freer than the mercenary and his dismissive words. She was done wandering. With quite repose, she stepped inside the coach and took a seat, glancing out the narrow window as land flowed by and she was taken home.
Description
Wraithlike and sensuous, the half-breed moriel was a ghost of ash and shadow. Rippling down her sinuous back and licking at knee length a mane of coal black gleamed against her ashen silver skin. Slanted eyes, the deepest of abyssal blacks, reflected the watching world back with a knowing apathy while dusky, plum dark lips seemed prone to curve at one corner in quiet amusement.
Possessed of a sleek, supple figure, she chose to emphasize her slenderness rather than hide her lack of voluptuous curves. A corset of leather molded to her torso, snugly forcing her ample, if small breasts upward in a silvery show of cleavage while shaping to narrow waist and lithely flared hips.
Every inch of sculpted collarbone and rounded shoulders, slim arms, delicately shaped wrists and hands were left bared to any who desired to gaze upon her. Instead of a skirt, the half-breed chose two panels of darkest onyx silk to drape down front and back while leaving the long, sensuous length of her shapely legs visible on either side.
But instead of leaving those limbs bared, she wore tall, thigh-high black leather boots; a trademark of hers. A slight heel gave her a little added hight as well as elegance and poise, while each fluid movement caused buckles and straps of snug leather to creak and groan in protestation as if victims of bondage where enchanted into the material.