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“Girlie”
They call her lucky.
A sewing needle pauses in its journey between ornate beads. The slave girl glances over at her master’s bed.
“Yes madam?”
The lady of the house weakly gestures to the skirt in the girl’s lap. “Put that on.”
They call her fortunate.
The slave nearly pricks herself. “My Lady?”
“You know why I bought you, how am I supposed to know all these beads look good with my skin tone like this?!” Lady Myrren waved her hands around, gesturing to the medicine, the towel stained with filth, her own translucent hands which the girl gently catches.
“Don’t hurt yourself my lady.”
They say she has it best out of all of them.
The Lady huffs, crossing her arms and laying back down on the pillows, giving a small cough. “Hmph. Now make sure everything looks right together, will you? I would hate to finally return from my hiatus looking tacky - I might just die of embarrassment!”
But none of them have actually had to listen to this…fucking dingus.
The slave girl nods and cuts the thread, setting the needle aside so she may wear the skirt without getting pricked.
Well, they aren’t completely wrong. She supposed, quickly changing into her master’s other garments. At least she plays dress-up with me with some taste.
The slave girl drapes a shawl around her shoulders and turns around, dutifully turning this way and that so Lady Myrren can see the dress at all angles. Her master frowns.
“Oh ew, you look disgusting. Try putting jewelry on it.”
But then the second shoe drops. You do know you’re essentially insulting yourself, right toots?
On again, off again, Myrren ordered the slave girl to try different combinations of clothes like a living mannequin, complaining all the while that she’ll be embarrassed at the celebration next week at this rate.
Good mannequin the slave was, she said nothing all the while.
The slave girl had long tuned out her vain, ditsy master at this point. But she still knew what Myrren was going on about. The slaves had all heard about it; provinces all over Shurima were celebrating the new leader of the Ascended Host - Setaka, the girl had heard she was called once.
What it would be like to have an actual damn name…
In their village, information about the Ascended were mainly relegated to the legends the slave girl and her colleagues would hear snippets of as they served Myrren and her few-far-between guests. The slave girl found them entertaining enough; worthy warriors chosen by the gods to hold such seasoned power as to bestow their titles of the Ascended god-warriors. One particularly amusing aspect in the slave girl’s opinion, was that the Ascended all took on the visage of animals - supposedly coinciding with their temperament or other such native Shuriman nonsense.
Feeling delusional, the slave girl briefly wondered what she may take the shape of if she ever-
The sound of violent coughing and hacking interrupted her from her thoughts.
The girl turned around to see Myrren looking like she was trying to vacate everything on the inside of her body.
“Madam?!”
The slave rushed to her master’s side. There was blood on the sheets and around the lady’s mouth and the sound was as if Myrren’s lungs were made of sandpaper.
The slave girl turned to the medicine. This can’t be happening, her mind was repeating frantically. She can’t die, we can’t be sold to someone worse!
The slave girl wet a rag and looked around for a goblet.
Ech, even with Kindred’s attention she still must have the best, - not the time!
She turns back and lays the cool rag across her master’s forehead. She then grabbed the cup and rushed out of the room, grateful for the brief reprieve from the dreadful noises the woman was making.
The slave girl hurried to the basin, hurriedly filling the cup and rushing back to lady Myrren’s room to find -
Silence.
The coughing had stopped.
The slave girl tentatively peeked inside the room, seeing her master lying still on the bed.
Too still.
No…no, no, this can’t be happening!
The girl rushed to the woman’s side, pleading to any and all that could listen that this wasn’t real.
But a pulse can’t lie.
And she arrives just in time to watch it peter out.
____________________________________
She doesn’t even remember going to the washbasin.
All she knows is one minute she’s watching her only source of survival die in front of her and the next she’s cleaning blood out of a rag.
Pausing for a second, she takes a look at her reflection in the water.
For a moment, it takes effort to remember that it is her own face.
The slave had been bought to be Myrren’s companion, Myrren herself personally choosing her for their resemblance, thought it would be ‘charming’ to have a doppelgänger following her around.
A sharp knock at the door interrupts her thoughts.
The girl instinctively goes to answer it, nearly calling for her master before remembering
She can’t hear her anymore.
Instead, the slave just opens the door. Silently.
Blinking a few times in lieu of the sudden light of the desert sun, the girl sees a man carrying parchment and a stylus. Her heart drops, recognizing the pin keeping his cloak in check.
It’s a census-taker.
The slave may as well have opened the door to the Kindred themselves.
“Water and shade to you, My Lady!” The census-taker greets. “Would you mind telling me how many citizens reside here?”
“W-water and shade to you as well, sir.” The girl replies shakily, about to state that there are no citizens here anymore when she stops, registering what he’d called her.
“M-my Lady?” She asks.
The census-taker raises his brow. “You are the lady of this house, are you not?” He asks, gesturing to the girl’s attire. “You most certainly don’t seem to be staff.“
The girl’s grip on her skirt tightens, before her hands fly to the shawl, as if remembering it was there.
Because it was.
It was there to cover her brand.
Of course he’d assume she was Lady Myrren, no slave without a death wish would dare cover their mark, lest they risk being whipped or even executed for insulting the intelligence of the “real people” of Shurima. As if any slave could trick others into believing they were free, what nonsense!
Well, the girl thinks, still staring at the census-taker. Where’s your intelligence now?
“Lady Myrren?” He prompts.
“Huh?” The slave girl snaps back to reality. Speaking before she can think.
“Oh, yes, that’s me.”
“Well?”
The slave girl adjusts her shawl. “There are no other citizens here sir, only f-three slaves.”
The census-taker makes a mark on his parchment and bids the girl good day. The girl closes the door, backing up before hitting a wall and sliding down to the floor, legs suddenly feeling like aloe.
What have I just done?!