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poeticmisery (poeticmisery) wrote in manchester_rpg,

"WHY?" The slave boy growled openly as he looked at her, and she slapped him across the face, roughly enough that it probably would have turned another man's head, instead the slave's crystal blue eyes just narrowed slightly at her as she had done it, watching the look on her face turn from anger to somewhat incredulous fear. Those blue eyes did not waver from looking at her, though they softened a little bit. He was looking at the woman that he loved, the woman that he wanted to be with more than anything. The woman that he would kill for, that he would die for... the woman that he would have done anything that she would have asked of him at one point in time... anything but simply leaving her be. That was the one thing that he absolutely could not do, no matter how much it felt somedays like it was the right choice to make.

"Why would you choose him over me?" The boy said in a whisper, his eyebrows knitting tighter. It had been a full year since Marcus had come into the picture now, and almost as long since he had witnessed the man coming out of her bed chamber. These arguments were not in the least bit uncommon for the two of them. Once she had calmed down from the experience, she had asked him to remain, told him that he, above all others was the one that she trusted, her only true freind in this entire place. She had even gone so far as to tell him that she might kill herself if he left. And so the boy had stayed, the boy had forced himself to stay by her side, to accept his fate. He loved her, and from all of the tales of love, it was so powerful that it could overcome such trifles as being unrequited, or suffering some small indignance. True love was even beyond death, was it not?

But the reality of the world corroded such thoughts more violently than any acid. There was no glory in staying as her friend throughout the process. There was only the faintest of comforts when he could see that he had made her smile, that he had made her laugh, that in some way he had shielded her from the poison that was Marcus. The pain dwarfed all of that, however, the pain of being reminded each time that he saw her crying that she had chosen it, that she had chosen Marcus and all the pain that came with him, over a devoted slave, one that would worship her, one that would give her everything that she would have ever needed. One that would have run with her to the ends of the earth and never asked for more than to wake up beside her each morning...

And that fact, that glaring inconsistency, that he was less than someone who used her for her charms and left her alone and crying in her bed often... it pierced him deeper than any sword could, and choked him like a noose until each day took effort. He found himself more and more sluggish to do anything, less and less wanting to hunt, to eat, to even care if he managed to sneak back on the grounds before the morning. Mari of course noticed almost immediately, but even when she yelled at him, he didn't care. It was not as if she did not yell at him frequently anyway. After Marcus would come in for his usual affair, if he left her crying for days afterwards Mari would snap at all of her slaves, but the one that was her 'friend' in particular, as if he had somehow conspired with Marcus to hurt her.

And so the fights between them grew darker, more aggressive. Pride, a thing that the slave boy once would have never thought he could have possessed, began to show it's face. There was only so much abuse that he could take, abuse that he did not deserve. And so more and more often he would stop taking the abuse that Mari was so keen to shower upon those beneath her. The other slaves noticed, even if they did not do the same thing. They would look at him in awe as he did not scamper out of the room, as he would stand there unflinching as she injured him, even moving once to grab her wrist after she came at him with a dagger, pull it from her hand and toss it to the side. Such things were punishable by death...

The slave boy no longer cared.