Freedom Bound

Questioning Beliefs

Ava had seen him a few times now. Danarius's new slave. What was his name? Fen something. He was only a few days into the job and she had to wonder at it. Danarius had never been one to have a personal slave before. Certainly he kept a lot of elves, but he hadn't allowed one into his chamber, to touch his food, his clothes, his person. This young man was different, but she wasn't certain how. He looked ordinary enough. She studied him across the long, kitchen prep table where he, like she, was waiting for his master's meal to be ready. He had the twitchy, uncontrolled air of a new slave. One who had not mastered themselves to stand still and stoic. Ava could be a living statue when it suited her.

Fen-whatever was lean, but muscled. A warrior. This, at least, made sense. Her mistress, Hadriana, had mentioned something about a challenge, or battle to prove himself worthy of being Danarius's personal slave. Ava had no idea what this combat had entailed, but clearly this young man had been the victor. His eyes flicked up to hers. She inhaled, more at his folly then how incredibly, vibrantly green they were. Eye contact, even with equals, was a habit he would need to break and fast. One misplaced movement of those eyes, however captivating they might be, could spell a beating, if not worse.

The cook plopped something down on the tray Ava had set before her on the table. Ava's lips tightened into a thin line. A warning. "What is this?"

"Eh?" the cook, a plump man with the disposition of a poorly trained dog grunted at her.

"This is not fresh," Ava plucked at the limp leaves of lettuce in the 'salad' which was the first addition to her tray. "My Lady will not touch this."

"Your lady-" the cook began, but did not finish. Even here in the kitchens wagging tongues could spell dead elves. Few people knew of the lattice of scars which already covered the cooks back and shoulders. He was careful to keep them to himself.

As the cook took back the pathetic salad Ava let her own gaze drift up to scrutinizing the boy. No. Not a boy. Not so young. Her age, perhaps a year younger. He would not remember. Ava herself had no proof of her age save what her mistress told her, and the healer's best guess judging by when she had started her monthly cycles. Her fellow house slave was tanned, with hair as black as ink he had cheekbones you could cut granite with. He was handsome, in the way of elves. All angles and eyes. Those eyes met hers again and she clucked her tongue. "Don't look at me, slave."

"You are a slave as well," his voice surprised her almost as much as his eyes. Dominant, certain, unbroken.

"I've got seniority. Besides, you should learn to control where you look."

A bowl of soup was settled on Fen-whatever's tray. He peered down at it, obviously uncertain. He had clearly noted her disapproval of the cook's offering for her mistress and obviously wondered if the soup was suitable.

"Here," Ava took pity on the lad. He was new, after all. No use getting him beaten just a few days into the job he would have for the rest of his life. Plenty of time for beatings later. "Grey," she addressed the cook. He understood without any further prompting. He heaved a disgruntled sigh and turned to the pot ladling a spoonful of the soup out and passing it to her. She dipped a careful pinky finger into the steaming liquid, then stuck it into her mouth, tasting expertly. "I've served Master Danarius a few times," she explained when the dark haired slave gave her a questioning look. "Oh, stop meeting my eyes! It tastes fine. The Master will like it."

The young man seemed to relax slightly as two thick pieces of well buttered bread were set beside the soup. He hurriedly covered them with a clean napkin so they would stay warm. Perhaps there was hope for him yet, Ava thought, though he did not take his eyes from hers and it rankled her no end.