Anything You Want

It’s terrible, being a slave. Especially when you don’t know about it.

It’s also terrible being the master. Especially when you don’t want to.

But is it really the worst when the tables are turned?

XXX

The whip came out of the air around him. It lashed repeatedly across the tattered rags that covered his misused body.

Pain showed in his face, the grit of his teeth, the depth of his eyes. But he bit hard on the scream and the only symbol his hurt was the crimson spray, and the paths it traced down his back.

In the dark, the heaving hulk of a man, his dirty hair, sweat-rotten clothes and hapless face, glistened in the flickering firelight. The whip cracked a slow, rhythmical pattern against the air of life itself.

“Slimy, rotting scoundrel, ye be wanted.”

The slave looked up slowly, his pale blond hair matted with grit and dust and ash, parted enough for him to make out one side of his overseer’s face.

A pudgy hand reached out, grabbed the skin on his neck and threw him to the side, down a stony passageway.

He pulled himself slowly away from the whip, scowling at the floor as two other men came to meet him. They were dressed in black, their entire forms swathed in a fabric strong as leather, yet soft as silk. The likes of which were completely foreign to the mine.

The guards exchanged a hidden look, before the world lost what little light it once held.

Either he was dead, or unconscious. It didn’t matter, because there was no pain anymore, only dull numbness in every cell of his body.

Then the light came and he gave up hope in the moment he regained consciousness.

His first thought was of absolute confusion. He had no idea where he was.

The walls surrounding him looked nothing like those of stone, or rock, or burned and rotting wood. They were gravelly, true, but smoother than glass, like running water, shimmering in the brightness with their azure blue depths. The light blew forth like the scent of a flower in a strong breeze, wafting throughout the room as though it were a substance itself, instead of mere energy trading through particles.

At the centre of the room, a life-sized slab of stone, pale, and foreign like the ever-present guards’ material. It was shaped into the form of a girl, seated upon a sleek silver stool with only one long pole for support.

She was the most beautiful piece of artwork the world had ever seen, the hair down her back in long raven-black waves being the only contrast to the creamy texture of the stone, the colourless cheeks high and prim, eyes wide and innocent, blinking-

Not a statue, but a human being. Perfection carved with the abundance of nature.

The girl stared, her amber orbs trained on the scrap of a man before her. All else disappeared around her as she concentrated on his body. The attention she gave him made it feel like she was trying to see through him, to the heart of his being, the core of his existence. While at the same time her scrutiny seemed to be the memorising every inch of his outward appearance. From the rags he wore, the bands of muscle wrapped around his legs and arms, the skin sagging over bone, flesh lacking.

Hands scrabbled at the ground, the fingernails gnawed from existence. Skin cracked and bled. Scars ran down one side of his face, behind his neck. Intricate patterns of dismay. And still he was the most beautiful being in existence.

Part of it was because of the Cycle; sorrow and misery, anger, hurt, then sorrow again. Because it tore at his insides, tortured his soul, and turned out his baleful existence to the cloud-faced, beatific creature before her.

And the other part was sheer, supernatural, brilliance. Light from the sky, captured beneath skin, glowing. Hope.

And like she’d been frozen in that state, only just reawakened from a temporary pause on life itself, colour flooded into her face. She rushed forwards, the silver and mauve pieces of silk swirled around her body, only just bringing themselves to the slave’s notice. Her knees hit the ground silently, but with a force needed to slam a pick into rock and send the crack in for a mile.

Her hands flitted at the slave’s shoulders while he slumped from pure exhaustion on the placid floor, eyelids drooping. He’d never known strength to be sapped so quickly. Just the effort of breathing was heavy on his chest and weighed him closer and closer to the ground, something that seemed to defy her wishes as she prodded his numb body into a kneeling position, while she sat on her heels, trying to keep the slave upright.

Was it really such a horror if his head so much as touched the smooth, blue crystal? And now that he thought about it, the floor, despite all its properties as what he suddenly recognized as the land’s prized cerulite crystal, was soft and cushioning like marshmallow, but still feeling distinctly solid.

She watched as if outside herself, as their roles switched. A small, cold voice insisted scathing statements to her, reminding her of their differences. But it seemed as unnatural as plastic, and definitely not a part of her.

The guards stationed at intervals in the crystal wall watched on, their cloth-covered faces concealing expressions of outrage and hate, to fear and apprehension.

The girl raised her amber eyes to the closest pair of men, anger and rage swirl within their depths. “What are you waiting for?” her voice, though light and soft, shook the walls with fury and power. “Help me! Help him!”

They hesitated, feeling a surge of gratitude towards the facemasks that now conceal their revulsion. To touch a slave was her choice and far beyond her for doing it, princess that she was.

How truly amazing, the slave remarked as he realised that he was now her master, and she was the dirt between his toes, their roles now truly reversed with her mind’s exposure to the cold truth’s of their world.

And with one realisation comes the next, the slave thought. It hit him quite as hard and fast as his overseer’s whip. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know she is mine.

He would insist later on that a something in him wanted revenge to his unjust imprisonment and servitude. But at that point in time, surprisingly, the only feeling he had was of regret for the switch.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: So, hello, say thank you to the nice . Yes, this was inspired by a font. And no, it was just the title, not the actual font font. And yes, the title is the same. But you can also say thank you to the movie Iron Man (2008). I think it was my true inspiration (in a 'it got my imagination pumping' kind of way).

Review if you must,

Mackenzie