Echoes - Chapter One
Note: Reorganizing this post to label this part of the story correctly.
TITLE: Echoes
AUTHOR:
flighty_dreams
WARNINGS: NC-17 (eventually). slavefic. F/m. fantasy setting.
WORD COUNT: 1,144
SUMMARY: A slave in a foreign land finds himself dragged back into a world he never wanted to return to.
NOTES: The index to this story available here. Written for the Women in Power challenge over on slavefics . (Everything but this short chapter, shh.)
FEEDBACK: Always welcome, even if it's just to say you read it. ;-)
Chapter One
Change came with the wagon’s appearance.
Hearing its approach, Kurth looked up. The dirt-filled shovel in his hands continued its arc; he knew better than to falter in his task. The overseer’s eyes were sharp, and his cane eager.
The other field slaves showed no interest in the disruption to their routine. Only two, new to the farm, paused to stare at the cart as it made its progress along the rutted road. However, when the overseer stepped towards them with a growl, they swiftly lost all care for it.
The sun was low on the horizon, and the long day had tired them all. The sweat sliding from Kurth’s tattooed forehead down his cheek was all too familiar, as was the grime that clung to his bare, sweaty back. His whole body ached, and he felt twice his age.
He shifted position, so he could satisfy his curiosity without interrupting his work. The cart’s only occupant pulled it to a halt outside the farmhouse. From the cut of his clothes and the pointed hat he wore, Kurth guessed he was a Zidaran merchant. The house was some distance away, and more than that he could not discern. A minute later, the merchant disappeared inside.
After five years working these fields, each day the same as the prior one, he welcomed any break in the seam of routine. He’d long ago learned the pattern of market days and when supplies were delivered to the farm. This merchant’s visit did not fit.
As he continued digging the irrigation trench at the side of the field, Kurth’s bored mind wondered at the visitor’s purpose. It was too late for a delivery or retrieval, and the merchant did not appear to be here to sell any products to the master. His wagon was empty, as were his hands as he’d approached the house. What reason had he for coming?
Kurth knew his speculation was pointless. Unless his master did business with the merchant later and he somehow witnessed it, he’d never know why the man had come. But he was grateful for anything that distracted him from his physical misery. Anything other than painful memories, at least.
A little while later, the merchant and his master left the house. Surprisingly, it was the fields they came to, and Kurth stole a better look at the visitor while they spoke to the overseer.
His attire was clean but worn, and his features not particularly distinguished. Not a man one would find memorable. He had the Zidaran fair hair and eyes that surrounded Kurth in this country. But out here the Zidarans, slave and free man alike, had tanned skin, the hours spent in the sun taking their toll. This merchant’s light skin betrayed that he was not from the area, and Kurth’s interest rose.
However, the call for all the slaves to stop their work and line up at the end of the field still surprised him. But the workers obeyed the order despite their bewilderment. They were a dozen in all, this farm not being particularly large.
The merchant began at one end and gradually made his way down the line. As he watched him from the edge of his vision, Kurth suddenly had a much better idea what the man was about.
When the merchant reached him, Kurth kept his eyes lowered but his neck straight. He could feel the man studying him, missing little. His gaze fastened on Kurth’s scars, and then he heard the man give an order he’d given a couple of the slaves before him.
“Turn around.”
Stifling a grimace, Kurth obeyed, presenting his scarred back. The marks were old and faded now, his days of rebellion long over. If there’d been any home left to go to, he would’ve escaped years ago - or died in the attempt. He’d welcome death, but suicide was for cowards desperate enough to give up the Lord and Lady’s Embrace.
The man continued on, examining the rest of the slaves before speaking to the master again. They spoke too softly to overhear, and Kurth received no warning.
Striding back over, accompanied by his master, the merchant pointed at him.
Kurth was not the only one surprised. “The Rorkan?” his master exclaimed. Despite giving it to him, the man never bothered to use his name.
“Yes.”
They haggled over price, now that his master knew which slave the merchant desired. But by the time the sun was setting, he was stepping into the wagon after his new master. The man grabbed his arms, chaining his hands to the cart with restraints he’d left in the vehicle. He said not a word to him, and Kurth knew better than to speak without invitation.
As the merchant turned the cart around, heading away from the farm, Kurth looked back at it uncomfortably. After years of longing to escape its tediousness, the prospect of the unknown made him anxious.
Once they’d been traveling for several minutes, the man looked back at him. “What’s your name?”
“Kurth, sir.”
The merchant made an impatient sound. “I don’t mean your Zidaran name. Tell me your Rorkan name.”
Kurth hesitated, unwilling to say it. He was a Zidaran slave now; that man was long dead.
His reluctance drew the merchant’s anger. “I will beat you every day until you tell me.”
He would not always be chained, and the Rorkan was taller, faster and stronger than the Zidaran, but it mattered not. The slave tattoo, etching the emblem of Zidara across his temples, ensured he would never escape ‘justice.’ No, overpowering the man would accomplish nothing.
Shoulders slumping, Kurth decided it mattered not anyway. The name meant nothing to him now.
“Katic.”
He’d looked away, but he could feel the man’s eyes on him, intent as a hawk. “Full name?”
“Saldrev Katic.” So long had passed since he’d said them, the words felt odd on his tongue.
His gaze met the other man’s instinctively as he said them, and he caught the flash of recognition. His tired muscles tensed; he’d not thought anyone would remember that name anymore.
The Zidaran grinned. “Good.”
The man turned back to the road, leaving Kurth to stare at his back. The word slipped from him before he could control it. “What?”
The Zidaran ignored him, and he realized he’d be granted no answers. Frustration churned within him; he’d always despised information being kept from him. Years of slavery had forced him to accept it, albeit reluctantly. As a child though, Jevin had loved to play games with him, feeding him only the information he deemed necessary and goading him to figure out the rest.
He shoved those memories away along with his frustration. They had no place here. Instead he embraced the patience that slavery had finally taught him.
Eventually, he would learn the purpose in this.
Chapter Two
TITLE: Echoes
AUTHOR:
flighty_dreams
WARNINGS: NC-17 (eventually). slavefic. F/m. fantasy setting.
WORD COUNT: 1,144
SUMMARY: A slave in a foreign land finds himself dragged back into a world he never wanted to return to.
NOTES: The index to this story available here. Written for the Women in Power challenge over on slavefics . (Everything but this short chapter, shh.)
FEEDBACK: Always welcome, even if it's just to say you read it. ;-)
Chapter One
Change came with the wagon’s appearance.
Hearing its approach, Kurth looked up. The dirt-filled shovel in his hands continued its arc; he knew better than to falter in his task. The overseer’s eyes were sharp, and his cane eager.
The other field slaves showed no interest in the disruption to their routine. Only two, new to the farm, paused to stare at the cart as it made its progress along the rutted road. However, when the overseer stepped towards them with a growl, they swiftly lost all care for it.
The sun was low on the horizon, and the long day had tired them all. The sweat sliding from Kurth’s tattooed forehead down his cheek was all too familiar, as was the grime that clung to his bare, sweaty back. His whole body ached, and he felt twice his age.
He shifted position, so he could satisfy his curiosity without interrupting his work. The cart’s only occupant pulled it to a halt outside the farmhouse. From the cut of his clothes and the pointed hat he wore, Kurth guessed he was a Zidaran merchant. The house was some distance away, and more than that he could not discern. A minute later, the merchant disappeared inside.
After five years working these fields, each day the same as the prior one, he welcomed any break in the seam of routine. He’d long ago learned the pattern of market days and when supplies were delivered to the farm. This merchant’s visit did not fit.
As he continued digging the irrigation trench at the side of the field, Kurth’s bored mind wondered at the visitor’s purpose. It was too late for a delivery or retrieval, and the merchant did not appear to be here to sell any products to the master. His wagon was empty, as were his hands as he’d approached the house. What reason had he for coming?
Kurth knew his speculation was pointless. Unless his master did business with the merchant later and he somehow witnessed it, he’d never know why the man had come. But he was grateful for anything that distracted him from his physical misery. Anything other than painful memories, at least.
A little while later, the merchant and his master left the house. Surprisingly, it was the fields they came to, and Kurth stole a better look at the visitor while they spoke to the overseer.
His attire was clean but worn, and his features not particularly distinguished. Not a man one would find memorable. He had the Zidaran fair hair and eyes that surrounded Kurth in this country. But out here the Zidarans, slave and free man alike, had tanned skin, the hours spent in the sun taking their toll. This merchant’s light skin betrayed that he was not from the area, and Kurth’s interest rose.
However, the call for all the slaves to stop their work and line up at the end of the field still surprised him. But the workers obeyed the order despite their bewilderment. They were a dozen in all, this farm not being particularly large.
The merchant began at one end and gradually made his way down the line. As he watched him from the edge of his vision, Kurth suddenly had a much better idea what the man was about.
When the merchant reached him, Kurth kept his eyes lowered but his neck straight. He could feel the man studying him, missing little. His gaze fastened on Kurth’s scars, and then he heard the man give an order he’d given a couple of the slaves before him.
“Turn around.”
Stifling a grimace, Kurth obeyed, presenting his scarred back. The marks were old and faded now, his days of rebellion long over. If there’d been any home left to go to, he would’ve escaped years ago - or died in the attempt. He’d welcome death, but suicide was for cowards desperate enough to give up the Lord and Lady’s Embrace.
The man continued on, examining the rest of the slaves before speaking to the master again. They spoke too softly to overhear, and Kurth received no warning.
Striding back over, accompanied by his master, the merchant pointed at him.
Kurth was not the only one surprised. “The Rorkan?” his master exclaimed. Despite giving it to him, the man never bothered to use his name.
“Yes.”
They haggled over price, now that his master knew which slave the merchant desired. But by the time the sun was setting, he was stepping into the wagon after his new master. The man grabbed his arms, chaining his hands to the cart with restraints he’d left in the vehicle. He said not a word to him, and Kurth knew better than to speak without invitation.
As the merchant turned the cart around, heading away from the farm, Kurth looked back at it uncomfortably. After years of longing to escape its tediousness, the prospect of the unknown made him anxious.
Once they’d been traveling for several minutes, the man looked back at him. “What’s your name?”
“Kurth, sir.”
The merchant made an impatient sound. “I don’t mean your Zidaran name. Tell me your Rorkan name.”
Kurth hesitated, unwilling to say it. He was a Zidaran slave now; that man was long dead.
His reluctance drew the merchant’s anger. “I will beat you every day until you tell me.”
He would not always be chained, and the Rorkan was taller, faster and stronger than the Zidaran, but it mattered not. The slave tattoo, etching the emblem of Zidara across his temples, ensured he would never escape ‘justice.’ No, overpowering the man would accomplish nothing.
Shoulders slumping, Kurth decided it mattered not anyway. The name meant nothing to him now.
“Katic.”
He’d looked away, but he could feel the man’s eyes on him, intent as a hawk. “Full name?”
“Saldrev Katic.” So long had passed since he’d said them, the words felt odd on his tongue.
His gaze met the other man’s instinctively as he said them, and he caught the flash of recognition. His tired muscles tensed; he’d not thought anyone would remember that name anymore.
The Zidaran grinned. “Good.”
The man turned back to the road, leaving Kurth to stare at his back. The word slipped from him before he could control it. “What?”
The Zidaran ignored him, and he realized he’d be granted no answers. Frustration churned within him; he’d always despised information being kept from him. Years of slavery had forced him to accept it, albeit reluctantly. As a child though, Jevin had loved to play games with him, feeding him only the information he deemed necessary and goading him to figure out the rest.
He shoved those memories away along with his frustration. They had no place here. Instead he embraced the patience that slavery had finally taught him.
Eventually, he would learn the purpose in this.
Chapter Two