AU Drabble: Enslaved
It was one thing to capture the angels of Heaven. They, while formidable, were still just creatures, just as humans and dogs and ants and whales were. The crow was not. He was a servant of Death, not created so much as simply put into being, a necessary force. He would never have dreamed the humans would dare try it. But they had tried, and they had succeeded. Bound to the earth, he had been locked away, kept by one family to ward off Death, a dream that soon turned into a nightmare. This was kept up until each in turn had begged him to take their souls to the land of dead. Afraid of his anger, should he be turned loose with the death of the last master, he had been given to the auction house, to the crow’s silent fury.
Now he stood there in his human form, the one he had created for himself. It had never been a source of discomfort for him, yet after so many years of being bound solely to the form, he despised it. No feathers, no beak, no wings with which to fly far away from this cesspool. The silver collar around his neck shone even in the dull light, the carvings upon it ancient and almost as old as he was. The crowd stayed well back, shifting uncomfortably, the usual chatter that preceded an auction strangely absent. Many odd creatures often came through the auctioning house, but this was the first time a psychopomp had been taken in alive. His dark eyes, with memories that stretched out through all the ages of man, stared out boldly on the mortals. Not one would dare meet his eyes. Fools. They sought to control what they feared and did not understand. Their ignorance would cost them dearly. Slow to anger, he’d had decades to build it up, and the fire within raged steadily on.
The auctioneer coughed, a sweaty, red-faced man in a cheaply made suit. The crow, beforehand, had gotten close enough to murmur something in his ear, so low only he could hear it. The guards had wondered if it had been a curse or a spell, for afterward the man’s skin pallor had taken on the color of old cottage cheese, his eyes wide with terror. No one but the man would ever know what he spoke in a soft voice, with words so simple they seemed almost laughable were they not so serious. “I am not one of your souls bound as a slave. Do not treat me like one, or I will tell you the exact moment of your death.” Making the mistake of locking eyes with the creature, the auctioneer could see the terrifying truth of his words. He had swallowed hard and nodded once.
“L-Ladies an’ Gennlemen, I’d like t’ bring t’your attention t’ the creature…” The auctioneer felt more than he saw the death guide’s eyes burn into his skull “….. t’ the man,” he corrected himself, glancing over as if to reassure himself that terminology was acceptable. Satisfied, the crow’s attention had already turned back to the crowd, eyes sweeping over them, as if searching for someone in particular. “First ever t’be shown at this auction house. What a beaut.” He paused out of habit. At this point, the slave would normally show off their physique, as the angelus were often forced to do with their wings. But to do so now, with this one, would seem like a perverse mockery, like making a king act the part of a jester. He continued, but the voice was quieter and more subdued, a healthy dose of respect mingled in with fear. “I’ll start the bidding at two hundred…” The crowd, usually eager and rambunctious to begin, paused, acting like the silent witnesses to a death happening right in front of them. Then a hesitant hand rose, and the spell was broken. Still, it was an atmosphere more akin to that of a funeral then buying and selling. The auctioneer let the bidding go on, but wondered in the back of his mind who in their right mind would ever buy a slave of Death.
A tattered piece of paper was handed off to highest bidder, along with a necklace in the shape of a cross, a vial at the center filled with a red fluid, arcane symbols scratched around it. On the paper were words in a sloping script, the ink half-faded with time and decay. There were symbols that ringed the paper, which match the collar placed around the crow’s neck.
To the new owner of the crow:
This creature will obey your every command, if it is within his power to do so. You will have to ask him specifically just what it is he is capable of. I dare not put it down into writing, for fear this paper falls into the wrong hands. Buyer be warned, he is not a slave nor a pet, and holds no loyalty to anyone but his own self. Word your commands carefully, for he will follow them to the letter. The collar and symbols carved into it binds his form to this realm and limits his powers to what you wish. The necklace you wear will protect you from any direct harm by the creature, but never remove or destroy it. Good luck, for you will greatly need it. May God have mercy on your soul.
~The last poor bastard to cheat Death
Now he stood there in his human form, the one he had created for himself. It had never been a source of discomfort for him, yet after so many years of being bound solely to the form, he despised it. No feathers, no beak, no wings with which to fly far away from this cesspool. The silver collar around his neck shone even in the dull light, the carvings upon it ancient and almost as old as he was. The crowd stayed well back, shifting uncomfortably, the usual chatter that preceded an auction strangely absent. Many odd creatures often came through the auctioning house, but this was the first time a psychopomp had been taken in alive. His dark eyes, with memories that stretched out through all the ages of man, stared out boldly on the mortals. Not one would dare meet his eyes. Fools. They sought to control what they feared and did not understand. Their ignorance would cost them dearly. Slow to anger, he’d had decades to build it up, and the fire within raged steadily on.
The auctioneer coughed, a sweaty, red-faced man in a cheaply made suit. The crow, beforehand, had gotten close enough to murmur something in his ear, so low only he could hear it. The guards had wondered if it had been a curse or a spell, for afterward the man’s skin pallor had taken on the color of old cottage cheese, his eyes wide with terror. No one but the man would ever know what he spoke in a soft voice, with words so simple they seemed almost laughable were they not so serious. “I am not one of your souls bound as a slave. Do not treat me like one, or I will tell you the exact moment of your death.” Making the mistake of locking eyes with the creature, the auctioneer could see the terrifying truth of his words. He had swallowed hard and nodded once.
“L-Ladies an’ Gennlemen, I’d like t’ bring t’your attention t’ the creature…” The auctioneer felt more than he saw the death guide’s eyes burn into his skull “….. t’ the man,” he corrected himself, glancing over as if to reassure himself that terminology was acceptable. Satisfied, the crow’s attention had already turned back to the crowd, eyes sweeping over them, as if searching for someone in particular. “First ever t’be shown at this auction house. What a beaut.” He paused out of habit. At this point, the slave would normally show off their physique, as the angelus were often forced to do with their wings. But to do so now, with this one, would seem like a perverse mockery, like making a king act the part of a jester. He continued, but the voice was quieter and more subdued, a healthy dose of respect mingled in with fear. “I’ll start the bidding at two hundred…” The crowd, usually eager and rambunctious to begin, paused, acting like the silent witnesses to a death happening right in front of them. Then a hesitant hand rose, and the spell was broken. Still, it was an atmosphere more akin to that of a funeral then buying and selling. The auctioneer let the bidding go on, but wondered in the back of his mind who in their right mind would ever buy a slave of Death.
A tattered piece of paper was handed off to highest bidder, along with a necklace in the shape of a cross, a vial at the center filled with a red fluid, arcane symbols scratched around it. On the paper were words in a sloping script, the ink half-faded with time and decay. There were symbols that ringed the paper, which match the collar placed around the crow’s neck.
To the new owner of the crow:
This creature will obey your every command, if it is within his power to do so. You will have to ask him specifically just what it is he is capable of. I dare not put it down into writing, for fear this paper falls into the wrong hands. Buyer be warned, he is not a slave nor a pet, and holds no loyalty to anyone but his own self. Word your commands carefully, for he will follow them to the letter. The collar and symbols carved into it binds his form to this realm and limits his powers to what you wish. The necklace you wear will protect you from any direct harm by the creature, but never remove or destroy it. Good luck, for you will greatly need it. May God have mercy on your soul.
~The last poor bastard to cheat Death