30. OLIRA
30
OLIRA
Olira moved through the woods, her boots not making any noise on the damp, soft earth. The rain from the previous night had left the forest soaked, the leaves glistening with water droplets, and the air thick with the scent of wet earth and pine. She had been dreading this moment all morning. She had done everything she could to delay going to the clearing and confronting what she might or not find.
The slave hadn’t returned last night. There had been no sign of him in the morning either. She had checked everywhere, even the barn, half-expecting to find him sitting in the stall. But it was empty, the chain still attached to the wall. Her brothers had asked about him, their curiosity mixed with concern. Gilann, in particular, had thought she was insane for letting him go, but he understood why she had done it.
As she drew closer to the clearing, Olira’s steps slowed. She didn’t want to know. Part of her hoped she would find nothing, that he had taken the opportunity and run. It would put her in a difficult situation, with no other means to pay Master Tholthus, but she still hoped that he would run.
She pushed through the last line of trees and stepped into the clearing. At first, it seemed empty, the massive rock standing alone in the centre, a dark silhouette against the grey sky. Her heart sank, a mixture of relief and disappointment washing over her.
Then she saw a figure sitting against the rock.
The slave’s knees were drawn up to his chest, his face buried in his arms. Despite his imposing size, he looked like a small, hunched figure that seemed to burrow into the damp stone behind him. His clothes were drenched, the fabric clinging to his skin as if trying to pull him down further into the earth. The bag she had given him lay untouched beside him. He hadn’t used the coat inside, hadn’t even tried to shelter himself from the rain, as if the cold and wet were things he no longer felt or cared about. He just sat there, motionless.
Olira’s shoulders sagged. She was wrong. The slave was just an ordinary purebred, nothing more. A hollow shell. A mindless, broken thing with no will of his own. He couldn’t think for himself, couldn’t act in his own best interest, even something as simple as sheltering himself from the rain. As the realisation took hold, a flicker of something else stirred in the back of her mind: pity.
She crouched in front of him, her heart heavy with compassion. She sighed. “Why? Why didn’t you run?”
For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he stirred, lifting his head. He stared without focus at a vague spot past Olira’s shoulder. His dirty blonde hair clung to his forehead. His face was shadowed by dark blonde stubble, and beneath his eyes were dark, puffy circles, like he hadn’t slept all night. The glazed look in his grey eyes twisted Olira’s gut in ways she couldn’t fully understand. Despite his broad frame, the purebred beast looked utterly drained, bone-deep tired, as if he had been carrying the weight of the boulder behind him.
He opened and closed his mouth a few times until he could find his voice. “I live to serve,” he said. He paused to swallow. “I breathe to please.”
Olira hung her head. She nodded slowly. “Okay.” The word was an admission of defeat, like she had lost an argument. “Okay,” she repeated, taking a deep breath as she stood. “Let’s just go home.”
The man nodded slightly, pushing himself up from the ground with the slow, deliberate movements of someone who had long since given up on resisting the pull of gravity. They walked back to the farm in silence.