Mea Culpa

In a world where servitude is a given, one Master takes his power too far.

 

Bells. The bells you hear first, the intense sound echoing in the spacious room, refusing to fade until its presence has been duly noted. The dark walls – you might even go so far as to say black, but who in their right mind would paint their walls black – throw the sound back at you, until the rings begin to form words in your head. The sound forces you to remember the man that forced you here and you continue into the room. A fire burns in an ornate brick fireplace along the opposite wall. Smooth, obsidian stones line the hearth, golden in the light of the fire. With purposeful steps, you cross the room, and upon closer inspection, the stones are clean, not soiled with soot and grime, as you had expected. The temptation to reach down and hold one in the palm of your hand is strong, but you remind yourself that the pain that would surely result would not be worth the enchantment. Nervous eyes flit around the room, and you notice that the burgundy drapes are drawn, allowing the moonlight to highlight the room and you remember with dismay the time, your urgency. There is not a single moment to waste upon petty contemplation, nor upon woeful pleas of penance. This, you know, would only result in further degradation, and your pride cannot suffer further. And so, it is with a newfound strength that you force yourself to the mahogany armoire, warily eyeing the brass fixtures. The walls still seem to speak to you from the bells, and you focus on that as you extend a shaking hand to the gleaming knob. When your hand grazes the smooth and unnervingly cool metal, you feel the fire fill your whole being, until you are sure that it will kill you. It was to be expected, you know, and yet you are unprepared for the fullness that consumes you, while feeling simultaneously empty. The cacophonous sensation leaves you almost unwilling to open the door, to meet the sure horror that awaits you on the other side. But for not the first time that night, the voice again resounds in your head, taunting, Pathetic; fix it, or I shall be forced to torture the lesson of obedience into you. An involuntary shiver courses down your spine, and as you squeeze your eyes tight against the memory of searing eyes and that dissonant voice, you feel your trembling fingers tighten around the handle, pulling the dark door open. It swings back slowly, like an invitation, and when you finally crack your eyes open, you feel the air rush from your lungs in surprise at the sight that greets you.

 

It's close to mid-afternoon, you can tell this right away. The sun is high overhead, and the temperature must be well over a hundred degrees. The passageway has opened into an alleyway, brick walls on either side of you. When you turn, you expect to see the back of the wardrobe, or some sort of portal, but instead you find yourself face to face with a dark figure leaning nonchalantly against the wall. For a moment, you swear your heart stops, and a startled gasp leaves your lips. The cloaked figure lifts his head, and you are met with the smoldering black eyes of your Taker. His lips twist into an ugly smirk at your surprise. Combing a slender hand through his silver hair, he speaks.

 

'I must admit,' he begins, that familiar voice like velvet, making your skin crawl with fear, 'I am rather disappointed in you.' His glittering eyes take in your face, your arms, and you tense under the scrutiny. 'I imagine your Master was most displease.' Chuckling softly, he raises a gloved hand to your cheek, lovingly caressing the gash there.

 

It is above you to speak, and to do so now, when your Taker is so openly mocking you, would result in incurring the wrath of both your Taker and your Master. But your pride, your self-respect, is begging you to defend yourself against his cruelty.

 

'Please, Sir,' you say meekly, but the very sound of your voice seems to provoke those elegant fingertips to dig deep into the cut on your cheek, drawing a pained cry from your lips. 

 

'Silence!' he hisses, with all the frustration of a Taker of an insolent child. 'You will listen when a superior tells you that you are a failure. You will keep silent while I remind you that you are a waste of a person.'

 

Tears prick your eyes as your whole being trembles with fear. This man, your Taker, is capable of anything – this you know for sure. Submissively, you bow your head, the gesture as much a debasement as an apology. Leather-sheathed fingers drift away from the bleeding wound to your slight neck, and if it were any other situation, you might be able to appreciate the beauty in the contrast between your Taker's slender hand and your pale neck. As it was, the tightening grip against your jugular tears your thoughts away from anything not pertaining to your almost imminent death. Frantically, your small hands scrabble at your Taker's, desperate to lessen the pressure. Soon, your vision is edged by the hazy darkness you've come to associate with your superordinates, and you're sure he's going to kill you – something he's wanted to do since you became his. Without allowing you the opportunity to slip into unconsciousness, your Taker throws you to the ground, unflinching when the hollow sound of cracking bones fills the alley.

 

Eyes watering, you double over on the pavement, drawing in painful gasps of air. The sound of your Taker's boots against the pavement is harsh to your ears as he circles your pathetic form. Fighting back the whimper in your throat, you rise to your unsteady feet, keeping your gaze lowered.

 

'Subordination,' he reminds you lowly.

 

If you were brave (foolish) enough to lift your downcast eyes, you're sure that you would be able to see the anger, even the pure, vile dislike in the fathomless eyes of your Taker. Dirt crunches beneath the heel of his boots as he continues to circle you, and you know what is coming next, clenching your fists at your sides as you brace yourself.

 

'I suppose,' he drawls coolly, 'that you believe yourself quite clever, coming here like this.' A heavy hand settles on your should as your Taker stands flush with your body, his very presence menacing. 'I hardly need to tell you that it was incredibly impudent of you to even presume that I would help you back into your Master's good graces.' His breath is harsh as it rasps against your ear, the grip on your shoulder tightening until you're sure you'll collapse from the pain. 'However, I do believe I could point you in the direction of one more willing than I.' At this, a sharp point presses into the small of your back (you refuse to allow yourself to believe that it's a blade he's pressed there), and you know at once what he is suggesting. Drawing in a shaky breath, you nod your head solemnly, agreeing to meet with your Giver.

 

With a final threatening squeeze, your Taker removes his gloved hand. Clearing his throat, he adds, 'and remember, that although your Giver is certainly less intolerant than I am, he will not, by any means, be lenient. What you have done has disgraced the names of all those who are burdened by your existence. Be warned that you have no reason to expect sympathy from him.' He coughs softly, a gesture you now know means he's done thinking of his inverse, and presses a cool coin into your palm. Instinctively, your fingers close around the small object, and in the space of time worthy of a single blink, you find yourself standing in an open field. It's raining, and you are miserable, and your clothes are sticking to your numbing skin. The wind is biting, roaring in your ears so loudly that for a moment, you're certain you've only imagined the voice calling your name. It isn't until you feel a hand on your shoulder (in much the same way as your Taker had moments before) that you are aware that you are not alone in the field. As you turn to your Giver, you notice with vague intrigue that the rains and winds have cease, and only dark, foreboding clouds are overhead. He has a certain control over such a powerful thing as Mother Nature, you know, but it is a rarity that you are ever witness to such an event.

 

As you take in the appearance of your Giver, you feel a gasp of shock leave your lips. He wears a plain brown tweed suit, which, you notice, is tattered and threadbare in some places. His mousy brown hair is thinning and slightly damp from the recent downpour. At this, you feel your breaths falter, as you comprehend the meaning of his appearance. This is not a form he assumes often, and only does so when he wants you to feel comforted, to feel as an equal to him.

 

Smirking at your amazement, he says, rather nonchalantly, 'He has told me to expect you, and dutifully informed me of your transgression.' Cocking his head, your Fiver narrows his eyes calculatingly. 'Am I to believe that our precious Underling has been neglecting his duties?' he asks mockingly. The lowering of your eyes is enough of an answer, and your Giver chuckles softly. 'Such a disappointment you've turned out to be. Your Master is an unfortunate soul to be associated with one such as you.' Gaze still averted, you feel your skin bristle with embarrassment. Though your Master is sure to remind you daily of how worthless he finds you, it still pains you to hear your Giver – who is rather like your savior among your Keepers – demean you.

 

Primly-kept nails lightly graze your jaw line as he inspects the wound below your left eye. 'You should have known better than to irritate him,' he chastises quietly. A gentle thumb runs over the gash, and you feel a subtle heat as your skin seals together. Grey eyes flick to yours as he drops his hand. 'Your Master has instructed me to aid you in your…quest, though I was led to believe that you are to be met with no mercy when you return to him.' Panic consumes you; you fear your Master when he's being merciful. Seeing your distress, your Giver steps closer, enveloping you in a reassuring embrace. 'You must understand Child,' –and you stiffen at the uncommon term of endearment, or rather, control – ' that what you've done, to yourself and to us, is unacceptable. You know that we were forced into Keeping you, and that we are no happier than you. But to do such a thing as this, when our dislike of you is already so inestimable…I cannot begin to impart upon you the foolishness of your actions.'

 

He pulls you tighter against him for a moment before pushing you gently away, though refusing to meet your eyes. What he's said, and more importantly, how he's said it, was a mistake, and you can see by the shame barely concealed in your Giver's eyes that you are both aware of this new situation. Exhaling deeply, he nods at you, acknowledging your right to speak freely (savor it, you imagine him saying).

 

'Sir,' you begin, you voice rough from disuse, 'I understand that what I have done was hugely irresponsible. But…' You pause, wondering how to phrase what you want, what you need to say next. 'But what I did, what I've done, was by the order of…' Not fully confident in revealing the true circumstances of your crime, you trail off, and your Giver raises a bemused eyebrow, urging you to continue. Releasing a great sigh, you go on, '…by the order of my Master.'

 

The field has gone completely still as he attempts to process this new information.

 

'Your Master ordered you to destroy it,' he states dubiously, and it is almost as though he's trying to convince himself of the fact. When you nod in the affirmative, he continues, louder this time, with sheer anger coloring his voice, 'your Master of you the ultimate abject submission. Your Master,' he spits the title with utter disdain, 'commanded you to remove your soul so that he may have undeniable authority over you. Is this so?'

 

'It is, Sir.'

 

The rage is apparent in his eyes as he stalks a few paces away, clenching and unclenching his fists. Indistinct mumbling reaches your ears, and although you cannot discern any intelligible words, you are sure of your conclusion that your Giver as quite the retribution planned for your Master.

 

'Here, take my hand,' he says abruptly, and you glance at the proffered hand. It is clear where he plans to take you, but you fear that although you will have the protection of your Giver, you are by no means guaranteed safety. He shakes the hand at you agitatedly, and you reluctantly take it. Closing your eyes, you cling to the hand tightly as you feel your body disappears from the field. When you reassemble, it is inside a decrepit study, one you know to be in the dark corner of the Manor. With some trepidation, you leave your Giver's side, moving to the window. The back gardens are dying, a truly disheartening sight to see in your current situation. Behind you, you hear a faint crack, and note the arrival of your Taker. In a hushed voice, you your Giver explaining what has transpired, and listen with obscure amusement as your Taker erupts with fury. Outside it has begun to rain, and you grimly acknowledge the arrival of your Master. Several seconds later, the door is thrown open, causing your slight shoulders to jump.

 

'How wonderful,' your Master drawls, and you listen nervously as his footsteps draw nearer. However reluctantly, you know that your other tow Keepers would protect you from your Master, but the man's proximity is still capable of unnerving you. 'I suppose you've both heard the Inferior's lies.' Aware of the slight tremble racking your body, you turn from the window, and meet the fiery blue eyes of your Master. His scraggly black hair is tied at the nape of his neck with a velvet ribbon, and the business suit he wears emphasizes his perceived power. Although you are paralyzed by terror of your Master, your other Keepers close in on him, visibly shaking with what you can only imagine is rage.

 

'You have grossly shirked your responsibilities towards our Child,' your Taker exclaims.

 

'And you have endangered all of us through your actions,' your Giver adds vehemently.

 

Your Master's eyes narrow as he looks over the three of you. Hands clasped behind his back, he begins to strut towards the window, stopping to gaze down onto the garden. A slow, methodic clicking issues from his mouth as he observes the storm clouds that have overrun the sky. 'Unfortunate state of affairs we're in, gentlemen,' he says calmly, and you know he's not addressing you. 'Our Child has been put at risk and our arrangement has been put at risk, by me. I'll admit that.' He stops, and turns back to face you. His face is stoic, a countenance he only uses to put you ill at ease. 'I will not, however, apologize for my actions. Surely you,' he nods at your Taker, and then your Giver, 'understand the allure of such control.'

 

'The temptation is one never to succumb to!' your Giver shouts furiously.

 

The room is silent, and you can see how nervous your Master has become. He wrings his hands as his eyes widen at the implication. A trace of alarm flickers in the blue eyes, and you know that he knows that payback is a bitter draught. Pressing your back against the wall, you watch as your Taker and your Giver exchange a secret glance.

 

'You shall pay for what you've done to this Child, and for what you've done to us,' your Taker tells your Master coolly. From your position along the far wall, you can see the fine tremor that shakes through you Master's frame. And as the payback unfolds before you, you can only watch, astounded by the lengths which your remaining Keepers – those two men you've always known (thought) would've preferred you dead – will go to protect your well-being. As you watch, you feel the air rush from your lungs for the second time this day when you see your Taker pull a delicate crystalline snowflake from within his cloak. Again, shock consumes you at the sight of this item, and specifically what you know to be its role in today's events.

 

'Lord Master of this wounded Child,' your Giver beings,' because of what you have done to jeopardize the safety and well-being of said Child, we, the Giver and Taker, hereby renounce your title as this Child's Master, and denounce your authority as a Superior.' With that, your Taker presses the pad of his thumb against the sapphire in the center of the pendent, and you take a perverse pleasure in the satisfying crack that is produced. 'You no longer have the right nor the power to control another, and have been reduced to the status of Inferior.' The expression on your former Master's face is extraordinarily satisfying, and if you did not understand the importance of what has just taken place, you might've found yourself laughing.

 

In the few tense moments that pass after this, all that can be heard is the distraught cries of your former Master. Soon, though, your Taker and your Giver turn from him, and stride towards you. Instinctively, you stiffen, and brace yourself for whatever it is they have to say to you now that you are without a Master. They stand before you solemnly for a moment before your Taker – your stoic, cruel, vile Taker – smiles reassuringly at you.

 

'Your Freedom,' he says quietly, handing you the shattered pendent. The significance of his words, of your former Master's pendent washes over you, and frightens you in ways you could not have imagined. The power, the control these three men have had over you for years is now yours. The knowledge that you are now your own person, under you own command is overwhelming, and you think that you might even faint.

 

Tears brimming your eyes, you meet first your Giver's eyes, and then your Taker's, trying to find the words to express your gratitude. 'I..' But the words die on your lips, because although you're sure that you stand here as an equal to these men, you're so accustomed to keeping silent, that you have to worthwhile to say to them, except, ' thank you.' This seems to have been adequate enough, because the are both hugging you, and you are pretty sure you can hear your Giver sobbing into your hair.

 

'This Freedom is a marvelous gift, Child,' your Taker lectures, and despite his impassive mask, you know he's actually quite please to be rid of you. 'I suggest you not waste it.' The pair of them pull away from you, and you steadily meet their gazes.

 

'I thank you both,' you offer quietly, 'for this and for all that you've taught me.'

 

At this, your Giver gives another exaggerated sob, wiping his eyes with the heels of his hands. 'You deserve the very best the world has to offer,' he manages to choke out.

 

Fingering the snowflake pendent, you wonder about these events. The night before last, you were being forced you renounce your very soul in favor of complete servitude. And then, somehow, your Master had put you at fault for the loss of that vital piece of you, and had sent you to retrieve it. Now here you stand, a whole person, free of any and all obligations to any other person.

 

'Home,' your Taker says softly, pressing a small coin into your palm. 'And good luck.' As you quickly fade from the study, you try desperately to memorize the faces of your Keepers, your saviors.

 

You reappear in the small alleyway where you had met your Taker before. The sun is beginning to set, bathing the brick walls in golden and rose-tinted light. Pressing your hand against a section of wall, you are able to find the portal back to your room, your world. You glance around you, and instantly see the imprints of your Taker's boots, and the spot where you'd fallen in pain and in disgrace. Finally, your eyes stop on where your Taker had stood against the wall, watching impassively as you blinked around in confusion after leaving the portal. And you only have room in your head for one though as you turn back to the nondescript section of stone wall.

 

I won't belong to anyone. Never again.

 

 

Author's Note

I know some of this may seem like there's not enough information to explain what's going on, but just take the assumption that this is an excerpt from a larger story. Or something.