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"Make a sound and I'll kill you."
The seven words were deceptively simple, holding a promise that she had no doubt was true as her master pulled the poker out of the fire. Unlike some, he preferred to take a hands-on approach to his slaves, personally branding each and every one, ensuring that they knew exactly who they belonged to.
A man forced her to her knees while another ripped the shirt off of her back. Tears leaked out of the corner of her eyes as she bit her lip hard enough to make it bleed. To her eternal shame, she was unable to keep control of her bladder as the Celestial Dragon approached, and a dark, wet stain spread across the crotch of her pants.
She smelled rather than felt the moment when the red-hot brand made contact with her back. Flesh sizzled, and in the effort to keep silent she bit through her lower lip.
But she did not scream, and she did not cry. This pleased her master, and as a reward did not kill her.
***
"The noise commoners make is so…unpleasant."
Her master paused as if expecting her answer, but she knew better. Her master forbid his slaves from speaking at all, and the cost of disobedience was a swift, painful death. Speaking encouraged independent thought, and independent thought led to discontent, and discontent to rebellion.
"Yes, unpleasant," her master mused aloud. His own voice was high-pitched and nasally, and for months she wondered how someone who hated so many sounds could stand to listen to himself speak. It took her a long time to realize his was the voice of a god, perfect in every way, and she was simply too stupid to comprehend the beauty of his words.
"Unpleasant. Uncouth. Coarse." His lip curled in disgust, and she suddenly began to fear for her life. "Slaves are to be seen and not heard. Do you understand?"
She bowed as deeply as she could, trying to convey her desire to obey through prostrate submission. Her master snorted, dismissing her with the flick of his wrist.
Still bowed at the waist, she walked backwards out of his presence. Once she was out of the room she leaned against the wall, trembling, afraid of the day she would fail to navigate her master's unpredictable moods.
Another slave burdened with a heavy basket of food passed, and they acknowledged one another with a nod. They were not allowed to speak, but there was a sense of comradery nonetheless.
***
"Hi, my name is Tomoe. Who're you?"
Her eyes widened in terror and she shook her head at her master's newest slave. She didn't have a name, not anymore. Her master never bothered to learn it, and it hurt her too much to remember. The new slave sighed in exasperation.
"Look, we're alone, aren't we? We can talk. What's your name?"
She shook her head emphatically, but the other slave still did not take the hint.
"Please, you gotta help me out here. There's no way the Celestial Douchebags can expect us to be quiet all the time."
When she looked back at that moment, she would always wonder what kind of person could be so brave to so openly defy their master, and who could be so foolish to believe that they wouldn't be found out. She would never forget watching her master cut out Tomoe tongue before subjecting her to torture so horrific that by the end she was begging for death, her eyes conveying the words she could no longer speak.
From then on she slept with a gag in her mouth so no one would hear her nightmares.
***
"You're free now. Please, talk to me."
She stared at her mother's pleading form. She knew she should feel something—regret? Sadness, maybe?—but there was only numbness. A dry, shriveled husk sat where her heart should have been, and she found herself incapable of accepting the love and kindness poured out by her friends and family.
"Please," her mother begged in a hoarse whisper. When her daughter didn't answer, she let out a choked sob and wrapped her in a bone-crushing hug that was neither rebuffed nor reciprocated.
She didn't know that her daughter could still smell the blood and the death. She didn't realize that hidden behind the silence was a frightened girl that wanted to speak but didn't know how. She didn't understand that that happy child she once knew was gone, beaten out of her by the cruel gods of Mariejois.
She didn't, she couldn't, understand that her daughter was still a slave, bound by chains stronger than iron.
***
It took three days before she made her decision. She was careful to make sure her mother didn't suspect anything, even managing to force her mouth in an approximation of a smile over breakfast. The unfamiliar action pulled the scar that ran across her bottom lip, and upon seeing it her mother nearly burst into tears of joy.
When her mother went out to market, she gathered the rope stolen from the neighbor's shed the night before. With careful motions she tied the knot every slave knew how to make, and after gathering a chair walked to the backyard.
A strange calmness settled over her as she looked at the great oak tree that dominated the yard. The sun shone overhead offering a pleasant warmth and a breeze rustled through the leaves. She listened for a moment with quiet appreciation, deciding that her master would approve of the noise.
It was a good day to die.
There was no hesitation as she climbed onto the chair and wrapped the rope around the sturdiest branch she could reach. She knew what would happen to her when she was recaptured, what would happen to her mother. Everyone knew she had been a slave, and even if she covered the mark on her back there was no hiding the fact Mariejois had taken something from her, leaving her somehow less than human. The world had nothing to offer, and she would rather end things by her own hand than remain trapped in this living hell.
It was only when she pulled the noose around her neck that she paused. Her mother would be upset, of course, and she could think of a few others who might regret her passing. But they had survived all this time without her, it wouldn't take them long to move on.
"Triste!"
Her mother's shout pulled her from her reverie. Mentally the former slave cursed her luck. She hadn't wanted her mother to see this.
"Triste, what are you doing?! Please, stop!"
Her mother rushed towards her. In moments she would be close enough to stop her daughter. Closing her eyes, the former slave took a deep breath.
"I have nothing left to live for."
Seven simple words, the first she had spoken in as long as she could remember. After years of disuse her voice came out in a raspy croak, ugly and pathetic to her own ears. If is what he heard, it was no wonder her master hated the common tongue.
Triste kicked the chair out from under her feet, and having said her peace welcomed the silence that enveloped her with open arms.