Calilla stood in the courtyard of the Prancing Pony. Before her, the fountain gurgled with flowing water, so clean and fresh. She always enjoyed watching the water. There was so much of it in this land! The sight of it - the interplay of light on the ripples - and the sound was so very soothing. Soothing enough, in fact, that she paid little attention to the comings and goings of those around her. Her mind, instead, wandered...
She had recently seen Talvor within the inn. There had been no real interaction between them, just an exchange of gazes as a mutual acknowledgement of the others' presence. Though Dernwynn and Arelienbur had spoken scathingly of the man in her - and his - presence, Calilla had felt little need to defend him. She had felt very little at all. She may not have agreed with many of their words concerning him but it barely mattered now.
Witch, he had called her and, sincere apology or not, the accusation would continue to affect her business and interactions with the local people for some time to come. She knew this would be so. A witch he may have thought her for awakening in him a desire for darker flesh, but in the deepest recesses of her mind, she had named him Necromancer, for who else could breathe life into that which had been so long dead? Fortunately, he had chosen his victim well. He wished that which he had resurrected to be buried again, a desire she could certainly fulfill. She was so very good at killing...
There had been so many. The names had long since eluded her, the faces blurring into one, all but a select few. Her first kill, at the age of ten, had been her own mother; a test of loyalty for her master and a true severing of ties with who she had once been. Between then and her bloody departure from his clutches, and his bed, she had been sent to end the lives of so many, individuals and families both, in Khand, Rhun and even Harad. Even since her escape to the West, she had killed time and time again, more often than not in self defence, though one or two had been to make an example amongst the brigands with whom she had done business. The bloodshed did not concern her. It never had.
What had mattered to her was her freedom; at first gaining it, and then keeping it. For ten years now she had been a free woman, or so she had thought. A simple conversation with Arelienbur had shown her how wrong she had been in that assumption.
It had been naught but a misunderstanding; idle talk between two women, one from Khand and the other from Rohan, neither of whom was completely fluent in Westron, but neither of whom could speak the language of the other. Calilla, as had always been her way, had spoken of herself in the third person, using her name, she or her, instead of I or me. Areli had thought that they had spoken of another woman, a mistake which Calilla had hastily corrected. In doing so, she had explained her reasons for referring to herself in such a fashion: In Khand, she had been without value: a slave; an object to be used and ignored as per the whims of her master. As such, she had no right to personal pronouns. To use them would have been an act of defiance; a claiming of self-worth that her owner never would have allowed.
Areli had taken Calilla by the hands then. She had looked into the taller woman's eyes and stated, softly and with intent "You are worthy."
Whether or not she had realised it, whether or not it had been her purpose to do so, in that instant Areli had shown Calilla something that she had never before realised. The Khandish killer may well have taken her freedom by force ten years ago, reinforcing this state with the death of every man sent to reclaim and punish her, but she was still, in part, a slave. In her heart she was free, but in her mind she was not. In her thoughts, and in her speech, Calilla was still a thing, a tool for the use of more powerful hands, a pet without any true identity or rights.
You are worthy.
The words rattled around in her skull, taking time to sink into the grey matter. Such simple words holding so much depth of meaning to her.
Areli, a meek, nervous woman who should, by rights, hate her as Talvor and his ilk did, had done the one thing that no one else ever had; she had finally put an end to Calilla's continued unconscious self-shackleing.
You are worthy.
Since hearing those words, Calilla had begun to believe it more and more. In response, she had also found herself becoming increasingly fond of, and protective toward, Areli.
You are worthy, she had been told.
Yes, she thought, a smile forming upon her lips as her fingertips trailed through the cold water. Yes, I am.
