Legends of Belariath
Caila
The Song
What had you done to warrant your Master’s beating of you so savagely? Barely conscious eyes swollen, lips split, the side of your jaw aching. Bruises, your breath burning as lungs struggled to take in the air itself, you needed. Pain, torrents of it, ripping though your body, as you hear the Healers speaking. A musical voice there in the darkness, some strange cadence of speech, but through the haze of horrible agony, you can make nothing out. A touch, on your forehead, the whisper of that lilting tone, and suddenly, very sleepy you drift peacefully out into the land of Dreams, that pain a memory to you as rest takes over.
Days of drifting, the only thing you can place, is awakening long enough to know you weren’t at home. The Pain then, and as you screamed, a touch from somewhere, the soft song drifting you back out into peace. Finally, the magic of the Healers took hold, your body starting to knit together, to mend. The haze there, but lifting, as you stirred. Eyes, opening, allowed to look around for the first time. The room, it was stunning, the side walls opened, a view of the forest, the breeze lifting gauzy curtains, billowing to life within the open sensation of being almost outside. The bed, the creamy texture of satin sheets, wrapped around your healing form. A soft noise, as someone approached, and there, you thought for an instant was some angelic being, perhaps called to issue your soul to the afterlife. Golden curls, draping around the most delicate of bodies, the swells of curves, as if someone had stolen the very rays of the sun and formed it into silken threads. Your eyes unable to focus, as suddenly, you were wrapped up against that form, your head cradled to the soft swells of those breasts, the satin covering them, so cool to your feverish flesh. Hands, fingers dancing in soothing rhythm against your temples, a gentle reminder to keep your eyes closed. Held so close, as if a Mother soothing her child from some horrible nightmare. The sweet decadence of that voice, the music held within tones, uttered from lips, you could only imagine. "Hush, sweet one, you have not the healing yet to awaken, sleep, dream, allow that to be your release from the pain of your body." There was a brush of the softest lips against your bruise upon your temple, as if blessing it.
Some time, your mind trying to grasp unable to sleep, tossing in that embrace, as she soothed. Gentle sounds, the purity of her voice, as she hummed, as if to rock your pain racked body into some lull of rest. A smile, dancing even in the tones, as she would speak once more. "Perhaps A story will ease your mind into forgetting for some time." She offered it, as a salve, as an ointment, knowing her words might allow your mind to give in, to paint the pictures of images her words would offer. Deft fingers moving across your forehead, constant in flight, never still. It was habit. A silence, as she pressed her arms around you, pulling you closer to her warmth. Musing on the subject, deciding that perhaps the lesson you needed to learn, the images you needed to see were ones very close to her own. That voice as she began, the radiance of hearing, the embrace of those slender arms, the steady touch, the cadence of her heartbeat, the rise and fall of her chest, all controlled, all showing her attention, her soothing nature, to help ease your pain.
"Once, deep in the woods, in a country, an Empire far from this one, was a girl. A halfling, beautiful, pure, innocent. She lived within the temple of Gea, amongst, the most devout of servants to the Goddess. It was a happy blessed childhood, she was allowed all the freedom of the forest, all the Love of nature, all the Adoration that a little one, to be brought into the Family of those who Serve could be showered upon. Golden curls, ringlets, the sun kissing her skin, the truly adorable nature of her, the tenderness of her age, of her purity, a blessing to mark those who saw it , as to the Goodness of the Goddess herself. The woods were her playground, the sounds of her sweetness heard by all of the Earth Mothers creatures. It was a tragic that morning, when she arose to the sounds of screams. To young to comprehend War, it had brought its ugly head to her doorstep. The child, running to the courtyard of the temple, her eyes issued the most horrid of visions. Raiders, those who kill for no reason other then their gain, being chased by an Troop of Knights, fate brought them through the Temple, seeking haven for their crimes. When the priest refused, it was only those seconds before blood of the innocent fell back onto the earth. The child, whose sleep had spared her the fighting, was found by those Knights, searching the woods, some days later, nestled to the corpse of one of the Priestess, the smell of death, of rot, clinging to the pure little girl. Dirty, her eyes haunted, the tremble of her, hunger starving her to death. No understanding of what had happened, only the terror of being left in its wake. The Leader, he took pity on the Girl, deciding that she would in fact be taken up in arms, until they made there way home.
A year passing, the girl growing, safe within the group of Men, each of them hardened killers, protectors of what they believed was good and just. She became a totem for them, a constant reminder of those who were left at home. Good Girl she was, whatever would entertain them, she would do. Singing in her sweetness, dancing her dance, using her tiny hands to assist with cleaning their weapons, their armor, tending to the horses, whatever she could be used for in her innocence she of course did. In them, she found that pain slowly removed, they treated her with enchantment, granted her the temperament that so few of them displayed to others. Their Angel, she was what they wished her, anything to give her that comfort that she was loved once again. There was a freedom in it as well. The Leader, he took a special shine to her, behaving as a father would. Never knowing her own, she embraced it with a childlike glee. That year, it passed to soon. While she grew, she learned, observing carefully what reactions pleased them, what made them shower the sweet attention to her. Allowed to over hear conversations, battle plans, missions accomplished, and those that failed, she was stirred into that intelligence rare for one so fragile, so young to form thoughts upon.
Finally, the battles stopped, the troops neared their homeland. There was talk , as to what would happen to the halfling. Rare enough for the men to be concerned with a prisoner, the heated debates the -only- conversation she was not allowed to be privy to. Finally, one night, the Leader, her abah, came to her, cradling the girls body against him, speaking freely of how delighted he was for her purpose in easing the homesickness with in Troops, her safety meaning the word to them, allowing them to fight on, as if knowing she awaited in the tents, meant that they -had- to protect her, spurring them to victory. Offering that child a drink from his tankard, one she accepted, trusting totally in him, as the night like blackness over took her.
She awoke within the walls of a Ilishek, a harem of slaves. Finding out later, that the one she called Father, had used her, sold her to pay off a debt to the Mistress of the house. A moriel, outcast from the Nethergloom, to be positioned topside, as a gatherer of information. Her ploy, to enslave young girls, raise them up, to be what she needed, tools, weapons. Using their bodies, their minds, their emotions to garner trust, as favored whores, the Moriel would glean the information of their bed mates through her slaves. The young girl, had been traded, to keep the Leader free from the burden of sharing state secrets with a whore. Forced down, every hair removed from her body, the pain, the shame of it, as she was adorned with satin garments, each color denoting what her purpose would be. A brand, burned into the girls hip, a mark that would never be erased. It was easy enough for the girl to deal with the pain of loss. It was the betrayal that would mark her very soul."
" Years passed the girl learning from her slave sisters, the arts, the practice of pleasing a man, or a woman of power. Each was trained up with music, art, poetry, dance, song, spell craft, weapons training, agility exercises, special attentions paid to observation, to touch, to learning to read a man by observing him, to know what would please, what would not, to become in fact what his vision of a woman should be. The perfect sisterhood of Courtesans. Of course, the Moriel, she took pride in her slaves, in the years of investment within them, allowing them not to be touched until training was complete. There was as well, lessons in quashing a mans advances if caught in the act of spying, of subterfuge. Pressure points, quick jabs with a dagger, protection of the Mistress property at all costs. The girl became a woman, her hair growing back, time passing as it does for everyone, relishing in the power that she now wielded over those who had hurt her in her youth. She was clever, gifted, the hunger to punish to make those who would -control- her puppets. There was something stirring about being a mans lover, his confidant, his whore, his very dream, only to seek out the truth of his actions, in those whispers, in his trust in that basking afterglow. It never failed to amaze, how a man once sated by what he thought was his -dream- would indeed speak as if there was nothing more pleasing then his own actions. Those learned, to be given in report to the Mistress, who would either blackmail, or sell the information to another. Thriving in her perfection she sought the comfort of her Sisters, choosing to invest time, in teaching, in learning from each of them, as she did their tutors. Years, spent as such, as a highly skilled infiltration weapon, honed to select her targets, to manipulate emotions, to effectively lead by being upon her knees. There was power there, even with that mark, even being owned. Safety, security in her place, in her hold. All needs taken care of, no reason to think, other then to practice, to train, to implement her Mistress’s wishes."
"Should I stop the story, allow you to rest?" The enchanting voice, lilting from those lips, as she cradled you to her tiny body. A murmur from you of protest, for some reason the lulling bewitching tones of her cadence, of her speech made it easy to forget your pain, to become one with the Girl within the Story. Nodding her head, golden ringlets dancing around those shoulders, gracing your body as well, as she begins again.
"One day, the girl discovered a horrible secret. In fact, the knowledge that she would never be free. Those girls who grew past the point of control, who would assume rights of Power, unfitting the Moriel, those who took lovers, made bed mates of those who they should be spying upon, thus harboring freedom from the Collar itself. It was a well kept secret. Once a girl reach the point that she was no longer useful, that her appearance could be altered no more, that there was doubt in the Mans mind that she may be a venomous snake, disguised as a butterfly, she would be poisoned, put down. The girl, she was far to impressed with herself, to allow this to happen. And so she plotted, putting aside her tainted honor, putting aside her self worth. She took a lover, a man of power, someone she could easily manipulate into believing whatever she said. Using him, playing him, as one would play a well tuned harp, she plucked here, tugged there, moving him until he could take no more, and had to lay claim upon her. That dance, it pleased her as no other, his confessions of love, of adoration, of lustful need, more so then any other had. Wicked abandon, her freedom the prize of this last game. It was He who would poison the Moriel, the Mistress. Paying for her freedom, for the release, his coins, and then his Blood, paid for her prize, her gift."
" for you see, those who are served by such angels of deception, while pleased the Mistress was dead, and with her their secrets, demanded the knowledge of who attacked. It came down to the Girls, life, her new freedom, her new leash, or Him. Rather quickly she turned that table, hinting here and there to the proper official, that he was crazed, that his love for her drove him to a rage, that because she was not sold to him, he plotted the Moriels death, knowing her property would be auctioned away, and he could swoop in to Pluck her . Easy enough to believe, the girl cried so beautifully when they drug him away in the middle of the night, ripping her from his body as she rode him, a surprise capture, leaving her, thighs spread, mind focused on her control."
"There were rumors of course, that she was the cause, the catalyst. Knowing she would never be safe, she ran hard, ran fast, seeking a far away Land, a land where a persons demons Made them, Became them. Using her talents, using her skills, her training, no knowledge of how day to day life would be, she was forced to steel herself, to gird herself up. What is the pain of a slave who knows no Master? Who serves no purpose? Sharing of legends, of songs, of stories, doing whatever she had to, too in fact, survive. She showed no shame, no task beneath her, choosing to purge herself by forcing her body into situations she could not control, leaving her breathless, leaving her pure once more. To the Inn, to this Empire she was called."
There was a smile on the woman’s face, as she leaned down, kissing your forehead "Sleep now little one, I shall hold you through the night, and then in the morning we shall talk more" there was that sweetness, that tender disposition, as if she could never be ugly, grow old, be hateful. Watching as you fell back to sleep, that tender movement, as she sang, her song lilting you to that grand land where dreams were to comfort and protect you.