The E- files

The months have passed, and still, she goes through the day to keep up the routine. She could not bear to disappoint him, even when the Slaver is but ashes on the wind and a memory best held to her body in the cold of the night. She still taught a new crop of slaves to dance with the same skill, care, and dedication that both breeding and training have instilled with her. But, there is a certain lack of heart, and the passion is a bitter thing to be awakened. When she moves, there is still the natural grace and awareness of technique. However, dance is fueled by desire, whether it is truly from the woman’s heart or just the need to please those viewing her movements.

Everyone moves on, even women that are merely within the collar. Pretty ornaments drifting along the currents with a chance to be owned by one man and then another. Within the span of her life, she has obeyed many, but only a very few have commanded her truly. A foolish emotion is the love of a woman as some would say, but it is the price duly to gladly paid by the slave girl as she lingers in her bondage.

Her tongue is still sharp, and the stick snaps against the thigh of a dancing slave that just fails to grasp the point of the dance. Finally tired, she waves a hand to dismiss the group of slaves. The women leave the training room, which leaves Eydis alone and staring at her own image within the mirror.

The urge to rage had been great at first, but the luxury of such was not her lot. Instead, she had been sent back to Lydius to take over the training of slave stock for House Ghiardie. The son of her former Master now ruled the House as the tradition continued. Over time, the grief has cooled to embers, but still, something burns within her belly. A need to be wild and exist. But she is contained, almost too well-behaved as the motions of every day are repeated.

She wants to slip through the doors of the house and keep running, until what is lost can be found. The music is within her being, a poignant lament. Yet, even that has shifted these last few days. She remembers the good and bad things, and that draws the notes into a joyous pace.

Yet, she stares at herself in the mirror, and the motion is subtle at first. A simple angling of her body as she rocks left to right, and back once more. Arms reaching upwards, she begins to whirl in ever widening circles. A demented dhervish that simply cannot stop hurtling herself exuberantly across the smooth wooden floor. There is very little formal routine to the dance, but the freedom is finally found to just simply be and move. She flings herself to and free with no intent to be teasing, coy, or otherwise as might be found in the typical dance of a slave girl. There is a lack of angst in the performance.

A happy dance, that is all it is, as she remembers.