Calilla returned to her shop, feeling more down hearted than she ever had in the past. She paused within the greater hall, casting her gaze around at her myriad wares - some which had been traded for gold, others for blood. It had been a great achievement, more than she had ever dreamed possible, but she felt no satisfaction for it now. It meant nothing.
It mattered not that she had claimed her freedom so long ago. It meant nothing that she had kept it. It was without merit that she owned property, walked independent of a man or master and had proven herself a deadly adversary to her own people. All of it, all that she had seen, all that she had done, all that she had learned and acquired since her departure from Khand was so completely rendered meaningless.
Why is that? She wondered as she took a bottle from the shelf.
Shedding her robe, she strode through the wide hall and into the small back rooms that she used for her own quarters. Two seats stood before a roaring fire, but only one was ever used. It was into that white wicker chair that she placed herself before pouring a measure of the strong liquor into a glass. Emerald eyes glittered like polished gems, the firelight reflecting so warmly, but her plump lips turned to a grimace at the taste of her drink. It was far more potent than she would usually allow, preferring a clear head in case of hostile visitors, but this eve she needed something to dull her wits.
Is this truly what he thinks of Calilla? She took another sip. The taste had not improved. She is a witch to cloud his senses? That she could, or would, force him to care for her?
It was a truly ridiculous accusation. He knew the truth! He knew that she had been a slave before her escape, that she had been naught but an instrument to be used since an early age. He knew that, as a woman, as a possession and as a slave, she would never have been taught the ways of the powerful. Her place had been to serve such a man, not to be one herself.
Calilla hissed between her teeth then, the gold beads binding the bottom of her braids chiming together harshly as she gave her head a sharp shake. No. She knew better than that. The hearts of men remained the same in composition regardless of their origin. She knew; she had cut many from their breasts over the years.
This was not about her. It was about him. His shame for developing feelings for someone of her ilk. His hatred of her people. His need to shed responsibility. His wish to not be held accountable.
She had lived this tale before; bearing the brunt of the punishment on behalf of the pride of her master so many times in her younger years. She had known no different back then, but what had once been naught but normal life to her had long since become a source of lessons learned.
What lesson was there here, then? That despite all she had known of him, Talvor was little more than a coward at heart? A child incapable of, or unwilling to, face his own fears? That he had required two of his kin to speak with her alongside him supported that theory.
She should be angry. She should be livid. That he dared accuse her of such things, of such manipulations and lies, only to lie to her, himself and his kin, seeking to manipulate others into driving a blade where he could not... she should despise his weakness. She should wish to see him staked out atop a mound of fire ants or to hold his still-beating heart in her hand whilst she watched the light of life fade from his eyes.
Why, then, did she not?
What was this sunken feeling in her breast, this nausea in the pit of her stomach? Probably the drink in the case of the latter, she conceded, but there was more to it. Her eyes burned, her throat hurt, but why? Why did it now seem like something was missing within her? What had been there before that she had not noticed and what had that to do with the sudden watering of her eyes?
Her hand gripped her glass tightly. Too tightly. It shattered within her grasp, tiny sparkling slivers flying in every direction. Larger ones bit deeply into her palm. She looked down at her lacerated hand, watching passively as bright red blood seeped up out of her flesh. Pain was but an illusion and easily overcome; this was something she had learned very early in life. But that was a truth about physical hurts, and therein lay the source of her confusion. This pain was not physical.
What Talvor had done this day was show her a new way to hurt. One that she had never before faced; a pain that transcended all she had felt previously. An agony that had no physical basis, but an emotional one.
Was it true, then? Had she felt so deeply for him?
Did it even matter now?
