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Kalina
I stand at attention, my back to the wall but not supported by it. My posture is precise and deliberate, standing in such a way that I could easily wait for hours without having to shift my weight or fidget. It's a skill that I have honed over years of practice in service to my Mistress. I stare straight ahead at the wall opposite me while I take in the scene around me in my peripheral vision.
Mistress Elizabeth is seated on her throne, leaning back with her legs crossed. Doyenne Ianthe flanks her, her posture identical to mine. The sash around her waist is a pale red indicating her status, unlike my blue one. Behind her are a few of the other maids and domestic slaves, with a mixture of pink and blue sashes.
Elizabeth turns her head, posing a quiet question to Ianthe. I can't hear what they're saying, but I can guess. After a moment Elizabeth nods, and turns to face the door at the end of the hall, staring intently at it. She's anticipating something.
We aren't kept waiting long. The heavy oak doors swing open and in walks a pair of praetorians - members of the elite slave soldier caste who have been contracted under my Mistress's employ. They're tall and adorned in their typical polished armor that catches the light as they walk forward. Their faces are hidden behind a stylized helmet with only a thin slit visible through which I can see their eyes. Held between them is a shorter frail woman being dragged along by a firm grip on her arms.
My eyes flicker from the spot on the wall I have been staring at to glance at the woman as she's hauled past me. She's thin, wearing a dirty ripped shirt and trousers. The praetorians flanking her pull her forward unforgivingly as her bare feet desperately try and keep pace with them without tripping. She has pale white hair which looks like it was cut hastily with a knife, without a mirror. Her skin is fair but covered in grime and filth, and underneath the dirt lies fresh evidence of pain. Bruises peek out from under her shirt, up her sides and down her arms. She looks to be in a dreadful state.
Her eyes catch my attention for a second. She's unaware of what's happening, frantically looking around and absolutely terrified of what she sees.
The praetorians stop suddenly, and shove her forward. I hear her voice for the first time as she cries out in pain, her arms barely able to catch her fall. Sympathy flares in my chest for this poor scared girl, but I can't show it. I breathe in and out, keeping my expression neutral.
Their role in these proceedings now complete, the praetorians turn on their heels and march back towards the door. As the pair walk past me, I catch a glimpse through the narrow slit in the closer one's helm. Their eyes - a man or woman I can't tell - convey a lucidity and viciousness in them. They don't speak, as they are trained. As they depart, all the focus in the room turns back to the woman they left behind.
The girl lays crumpled in a pile of limbs a few feet from Mistress Elizabeth's throne. As she raises her head, her eyes are level with Elizabeth's boot. Mistress doesn't react or acknowledge her, and instead Ianthe steps forward. "Kneel," she says, her voice carrying a steely commanding aura that would send most slaves hurrying to obey.
The new girl groans softly, slowly picking herself up off the floor and onto her hands and knees. She moves gingerly, clearly in pain but trying not to show it. But she makes no immediate move to kneel properly for our Mistress, as she was instructed.
Ianthe turns to look up at Mistress Elizabeth, who up until this point has been still and silent. Upon seeing Ianthe's look and recognizing the implicit question in her eyes, Elizabeth nods, ever so slightly. Permission granted.
I watch as Ianthe marches forward, stepping down the dais towards the girl. Her heavy heeled boots make an imposing tapping on the stone floor as she moves. The girl looks up as Ianthe approaches and flinches away, her eyes showing a spark of recognition. Ianthe is swift and deliberate, her strong arm grabbing a fistful of the girl's hair and pulling up, hauling her onto her knees in the process.
The girl cries out in pain and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to avoid wincing at the sound of it. I am part of the show that's being put on, and I have to look the part. All for the benefit of showing the new slave what fate awaits her. Elizabeth does have a bit of a penchant for theatrics.
Ianthe turns to face Elizabeth, still holding the girl up by her hair. Ignoring the pained sounds she's making, Ianthe speaks directly to her Mistress. "Mistress Elizabeth Veil-Astor," she starts, using her full regal name. "This one was picked up outside the market district, where she was accused of petty theft and creating a public disturbance."
"Please, I-" The girl starts to speak, but Ianthe is quicker. There's a sound of a meaty slap, and the girl's face jerks to the side. Ianthe's hand leaves a quickly forming red mark her cheek.
"You will speak when spoken to," Ianthe orders. A soft whimper escapes the girl's lips, but she stays silent for now.
Elizabeth leans forward in her throne. Her piercing green eyes have been fixated on the new girl throughout this whole demonstration, without saying a word. But she doesn't even directly acknowledge the girl, instead, looking up at Ianthe. "Her name?" Mistress's voice - unlike Ianthe's - carries the recognizable clipped tones and accent of a wealthy aristocrat.
"Frida, Mistress," Ianthe responds. "No surname."
"Well, that won't do. We can find her a more fitting name later. Any relatives? A family?"
Ianthe shakes her head slightly. "No Mistress. No house has laid claim to her."
Ianthe continues, rattling off a clearly prepared list of legal statutes and citations. It is mostly for show. With no house to speak for her, nobody would bat an eye if Frida disappeared off the street. This posturing here, this is just to show Frida precisely how powerless she is against the system, against the political dynasty that is the Veil-Astor estate. Even now after years in Mistress's service, having watched these proceedings over a dozen times, it is still a struggle watching the new slave face the truth. But I manage to keep my face blank in spite of everything.
Elizabeth leans forward again, and even I can feel the force of her gaze from my position off to the side. Frida looks up and flinches. "So... Frida," Mistress starts, her aristocratic accent making the common name sound foreign in her mouth. "Do you know what is going to happen to you? I will permit you to speak - a yes or no will suffice."
Frida withers under Elizabeth's gaze. Ianthe is still holding her up by her hair, but her shoulders hunch forward, her hands crossed in her lap in a protective gesture. When she speaks, her voice is pained and uncertain. "No," she answers.
"You have been accused of a crime against the Veil-Astor estate. My estate. We have every intent of finding you guilty. And as my Doyenne has patiently explained, your options right now are... limited." Elizabeth pauses, watching the expression on Frida's face intently.
"Make no mistake - I could have you hanging in the courtyard by morning. You surrendered your rights, as far as the legal system is concerned, when you tried to steal from me." Elizabeth's voice is hard, and she doesn't shy away from the threat. At first I believed her, but I now know that the threat is just an act. Elizabeth won't hang even the most defiant of slaves, despite how serious she can make it sound. But that's not because she doesn't have the power to - it's because she's become an expert at breaking them, one after another. Everyone has a weakness that will cause them to shatter, to accept their new role as a slave to the Veil-Astors, and Elizabeth is an expert at finding that crack.
Elizabeth leans back in her throne, her voice getting quieter, such that those around her have to pay just a little more attention to catch what she's saying. "However, I believe that would be a waste. I believe you can still be useful to us, and I am merciful, so I will give you another choice."
Ianthe tightens her grip on Frida's hair, drawing another cry from the girl and causing her to fidget. The cry is the intended outcome - a public demonstration of weakness, of how pathetic her resistance is in this moment. The relative silence in the large hall amplifies the sound, making it clear that everyone can hear it.
"You will become one of my slaves." Elizabeth gestures daintily towards the row of assembled women behind her, still standing perfectly at attention. They're just a prop, a bit of theater, for the show that is being put on for Frida's benefit. "You will be trained in the expectations and requirements of serving me. And I believe you will find I am a fair owner. All you have to do is accept my terms."
Mistress smiles, but it's devoid of kindness. It is the smile of a wolf who has just finished stalking her prey. Frida is silent, but I can imagine what is going through her head at the moment. Her mind racing, trying to find a way out of this situation and ending up empty. There is no choice being offered here. Mistress is careful, picking those who have that survival instinct, who won't be able to symbolically offer their life up as the price of their freedom. Individuals who, in their heart, would give up when presented with exactly this situation.
"Well, Frida? I will only extend this offer once. Do you accept my terms? A yes or no will suffice."
Mistress's lip curls upwards. She knows what she's doing. Frida's face cycles through a series of emotions - fear, helplessness, fury, frustration, and finally, defeat. Resignation.
"Yes," she says, her voice barely a whisper. The whole room can still hear it.
"Well done, Frida. I am proud of you for making that choice." Elizabeth's tone comes across as approving, delivering praise, as if this was a real choice. As if Frida, and all the slaves before her, are actually given a fair or even difficult choice to make. It hurts more when you're told you're doing the right thing, that you made the right choice - that it was your agency that led you to this life. For Frida, this is the beginning of a new life. But it is all an illusion. The power to actually shape your own life was one reserved for those born into wealth, into status, like Elizabeth's family. Not for those of the lower castes.
"Amara. The collar." Elizabeth doesn't look behind her as she makes the request, as she doesn't need to. Amara steps forward, holding in her hands a collar identical to the one we all wear. It's a sturdy piece, a smooth band of leather with metal buckles, and a ring in the front. The inside is studded with small metal contact points, ones that press into my neck ever so slightly, always reminding me of their presence. The leather bears a gold inlay of the Veil-Astor family crest, unambiguously marking anyone wearing it as one of her slaves.
Amara hands the collar to Ianthe and the pair efficiently buckle it around Frida's neck. She hangs her head low, defeated. Ianthe clips a leash to the ring on the front of Frida's new collar.
"And, just to ensure you understand your current position very clearly." Elizabeth's voice takes on a hard edge and she gestures to Ianthe, her eyes not leaving Frida's. Ianthe nods, and her hand reaches for something on her belt. I bite the inside of my cheek, hard, in anticipation of what comes next.
Frida screams. Her hands fly up to the collar around her neck, grabbing at it futilely. Her face is contorted in pain and she instinctively doubles over, waiting for it to end. I know what that feels like. Her collar is giving her a repeated series of painful shocks, enough to tear these agonized noises from her throat.
It only lasts a few seconds, and in the sudden silence Frida's heaving breaths seem loud. Elizabeth lets her breathing calm down a little before speaking again. "That is a tool, Frida," she says. "You will learn that we have many tools at our disposal, both of kind carrot, and stick, to ensure that your training proceeds smoothly."
"Additionally, that demonstration will also serve as a reminder that you wear that collar now, because I now own you." Elizabeth punctuates each word with that steely accent of hers. She waits, seemingly to see if Frida has gotten the message, then leans back, satisfied. When she speaks again, her voice is devoid of the cold and calculating harshness that she had directed towards Frida.
"Kalina?"
I turn to Mistress Elizabeth at the mention of my name. "Yes Mistress," I answer, keeping my voice level.
"You will take Frida, get her cleaned and properly attired, and instruct her in her new duties. You will be responsible for her training, and her behavior as a result. Is that clear?"
"Yes Mistress," I say again. Elizabeth nods. I see Frida's head turn ever so slightly, her eyes searching for the source of my voice, wondering who will be the next tormenter thrown at her. Hah. As if.
"Excellent. Then I believe this matter is settled. Kalina, Frida, you are dismissed." She says it with an air of finality, turning away as if the proceedings are no longer worth her attention.
I step forward, accepting the handle of the leash as it is offered to me. My eyes briefly meet Ianthe's, and I see the hardness in them. I still have to defer to her, as Doyenne. Frida is watching me with a different expression, one showing equal parts fear and hopelessness. It breaks my heart seeing the new girls like this, seeing them so frail. But I have a job to do.
"Come, Frida," I say quietly, and to the girl's credit, she stands on shaky legs and follows. I'm not pulling her by the leash, not really, but it's symbolic. We exit through one of the small side doors of the main hall and enter into the slave's quarters, Frida following a pace behind.
After a short walk through the cramped halls, we arrive at our destination. I step into the bathhouse, and Frida follows dutifully behind me, her head held low. However as she gets a look inside, her eyes widen in awe of the luxury around her. I feel a small smile creep onto my face, one that I could let happen now I am no longer in Mistress's presence. "Probably a bit nicer than what you're used to, isn't it?" I say softly, turning to face her.
Frida looks surprised by the question, or perhaps by the tone in which it was asked. Or perhaps it was the fact I had already shown her more interest and kindness than anyone else in the estate's employ had thus far.
This is how they'll break you, I think to myself. Beat you down, mentally and physically, until you feel like you have no choice but to surrender. Let you deal with Ianthe and Mistress first, to show you the power they have over you. And then, give you to me. Because I'm too nice. Because I can't help but be kind. Then that hopelessness that had built up, shatters, and I put you back together again. Building you up into a proper slave, who will take pride in your work. And it'll work - right up until the point that you'll get sold, auctioned off to the highest bidder for a tidy profit for our Mistress, and I'll never see you again.
I keep those thoughts to myself. As much as I may hate having to play my role in the process, it is still my role as a slave and I take pride in the work I do for Mistress. And right now, that role involves taking care of the poor frail thing in front of me.
I reach forward and unclip Frida's leash from her collar, placing it on a nearby shelf. She flinches as my hand gets near, but then relaxes slightly as she sees I wasn't reaching out to hurt her. I speak quietly, as to not startle her. "Okay Frida, I need to get you out of those clothes. Are you going to cooperate and let me?"
Frida looks up at me, meeting my eyes. She's so scared, I can see that easily, but there's something else in those eyes as well. She's trying to put on her brave face but it's paper thin. She swallows deliberately, and when she responds her voice is barely above a whisper. "I don't have a choice," she says, "you'll just shock me if I don't."
I step closer to her, and reach out tentatively, placing a hand on each one of her shoulders. She leans away from the touch and I try and give her an apologetic smile. She looks so delicate, so fragile already. But I still have a job to do, and both of us will be punished if I don't. I answer calmly, looking into her eyes. "No, I won't. Mistress Elizabeth and Doyenne Ianthe can, yes, but I cannot. I'm here to train you Frida - to show you how to adapt to your new role."
Frida stares back at me. "As a slave," she says, the words sounding like an accusation.
I nod, accepting the title. "Yes, as a slave. I serve Mistress Elizabeth, and I do it well. I have a place to sleep at night and three solid meals a day, which is better than what I expect you were dealing with before you got picked up."
Frida's eyes water; she blinks but is unable to completely hold back her tears. "But you aren't free," she says, but I can tell she doesn't believe in what she's saying.
"No," I say, and I can hear the soft, manipulative undercurrent in my voice as I add, "but neither was living on the street, was it?"
Her mouth opens and closes, trying to speak but nothing comes out. "I don't know," she breathes.
I nod again with understanding. I know what she's going through, and she needs time, but we don't have time to spare. I try and be gentle, my hands tracing down from her shoulders down her arms, finding and grasping her hands in mine. "You'll learn how to cope with it, eventually," I say. "But we can't wait for that. I would like to get you cleaned and fed, and you'll feel much better afterwards, okay?"
Frida tries to speak but can't, and settles for nodding. I take that as acceptance. "Okay Frida, would you raise your arms for me?"
She stares into my eyes for a long moment, frozen still, before raising her arms with a sigh. Her head dips down, unable to meet my gaze. "Good girl," I murmur, stepping close to her. I'm rewarded with a soft exhale of breath, a relaxing of tension. I reach down to her waist, gathering her threadbare shirt in my hands and lifting it up and over her shoulders. The baggy, torn thing gets pulled up and over her arms, revealing her stomach and chest. She has no bra on. Her small breasts match the waist with ribs I can easily count, clearly malnourished and thin from living as a scavenger on the streets.
"Bottoms next," I instruct, reaching for the waistband of her trousers. I can feel her stiffen momentarily, and I can't imagine she has any good memories of this. The girls that survive on the street, once they're old enough, they usually end up in the hands of perverts and pimps, selling their body for enough coin to buy a single good meal. But those who are less fortunate, the weaker ones, they don't get paid for the abuse they're forced to endure. "It'll be okay Frida, I just want to bathe you," I add, gently.
She nods faintly, and lets out a deliberate breath. I resume working her trousers off her hips and down her legs, letting her step out of each leg. Then once more with her underthings. I toss her clothes in a corner, to be disposed of later. I stand up as I finish, and I get a good look at Frida's naked body for the first time, and see the full extent of the hurt that she has endured.
I reach out a hand almost instinctively, my fingers brushing over a long patch of mottled bruises that extend from her breast down to her stomach. Frida stiffens at my touch. "Ianthe's work?" I ask, and Frida nods. She can't prevent the tears that well in her eyes, and one escapes, tracing a line down her cheek.
I look up, meeting Frida's watery eyes. "I'll be gentle, I promise." I turn, guiding her towards one of the stalls lined up at the edge of the bathhouse. In a corner is a basin and other supplies sitting on a counter and I walk over, rolling up my sleeves and turning on the taps. Hot, steaming water rushes into the basin. I gather together a selection of tools: a soft washcloth, a small cup for the water, and bottles of a pleasant smelling soap, shampoo, and conditioner. Frida watches me silently as I move around. She hasn't reached up to wipe the tear off her cheek.
"Just stand here for me, okay Frida? I'll do the rest," I say, holding up a cup of hot water and the washcloth. Frida nods and looks at the floor, and I go to work. The hot water gets a flinch and sharp inhale of breath as it gets poured over her shoulders, followed by the rhythmic motions of the washcloth. But after a few pours down her back, she's used to it and she doesn't flinch anymore when I touch her.
I work carefully but thoroughly, leaving her skin pink from the heat and agitation, but clean and smelling of the floral scent of the soap. She stiffens, her shoulders tense, when I reach around to handle her breasts and I reassure her gently. "You're doing so well Frida. I know this has been a hard day, just relax for me, okay?"
The soft affirmations get repeated like a mantra as I continue bathing her. Fetch water in the small cup, pour it over her body, scrub, rinse, repeat. She stiffens again when I reach down to her thighs and between her legs, but she lets out the tension by herself. Thankfully she learns quickly.
Her hair is fortunately short and easy to deal with, but still requires working out a few tangles with the careful use of a brush. "Your hair is a lovely striking color," I murmur as I work. "It'll look even better once it's grown out a little and with a proper cut and styling. What do you think, Frida?" Her expression cycles through several different emotions before it lands on a confusion, unsure of what to say.
"I don't... I dunno," she finally answers, and I can hear the waver in her voice. Then after a moment more, she opens up, the words starting to spill out, vulnerable and raw. "I didn't think about it. I cut it when it's too long. 's harder for someone to grab you that way."
A dark shadow passes over her face, some unwanted memory being brought to surface by the question. I coo softly, trying to reassure her. "You won't have to worry about that anymore, sweet thing," I say, and I see a little of the tension in her face relax. I finish with the rest of the tangles, doing the best I can with her choppy uneven hair. It'll almost look presentable, once styled a little. The Mistress likes her slaves looking good - strict, straight cuts that show effort without drawing too much attention.
I pick up a towel from a waiting rack and use it to carefully dry the girl. "Come, this way," I say, walking through the baths into a small adjoining room. Frida follows dutifully, her bare feet making soft wet noises on the tile. As we leave the heat of the water and the steam behind, she crosses her arms over her chest, shivering instinctively.
I open a pair of double doors, revealing an expansive closet, but little variety in its offerings. Mistress likes a slave's uniform - like the slave itself - to be functional but not flashy. They should blend into the background of any room they're in, like furniture. I turn, eyeing Frida's naked body up and down. "Hmm, I think this will fit you, although it will be a bit loose. Mistress will expect you to fill out a bit now that you're not starving."
The uniform I hand Frida is identical to mine. A set of plain white underthings. A tunic, also in the same pearly white, which will go over her head and extend just past her thighs. And a sash, in a pale blue, to fasten around her waist and keep the outfit together. It's designed to keep us functional across a wide range of tasks. And, for those slaves that are lucky enough to be favored by the Mistress, it allows easy access and removal as well.
Frida doesn't speak much, but with some gentle encouragement I help her into the uniform, showing her how it fits together. She seems to pay attention as I emphasize the precise fit of the cloth, and the way Ianthe will expect the sash tied neatly around her waist, which is good. It's better than if she was stubbornly refusing to learn or cooperate at this point.
As I finish dressing her, she catches sight of herself in one of the mirrors in the dressing room and her eyes widen. She's still visibly thin, with the sash tight and the tunic bunched up around her waist and chest a little. She does not look like the girl that was picked up from the street. The modest cut of the tunic hides the bruises underneath from view, and her skin is pale and clean, the grime and filth of her past life now washed down the drain.
I recognize the look in her eyes, the way she takes a half step forward to the mirror but hesitates, uncertain of herself. She doesn't recognize her reflection. I step forward with my hands on her waist, gently pulling her back. But she can't tear herself away. Her eyes water and she lets out a soft choked sob. "It's okay sweet thing," I murmur, my lips near her ear. "We can leave that for now, it'll be okay." The soft encouragement seems to break something inside her and she wavers, swaying slightly side to side. Her lips move in inaudible whispers, silent tears tracing lines down her cheeks.
As I pull her away from the mirror, she stumbles. Her legs are shaking, I realize. "Frida, it's okay, it'll be okay, can you sit down for me?" I keep up the soft affirmations as she stumbles, my arm catching her before she falls. She hiccups, and the tears run freely down her face now, as she's unable to hold them back anymore. A few more steps and we settle onto a nearby bench, and I wrap my arms around Frida's waist and hold her tight. She leans into me, her head buried in my chest, and sobs.
Frida's chest heaves, her breathing fast and shaky. My arms wrap tightly around her, providing the pressure and comfort that she surely needs right now. And I feel her respond, her hands gripping my waist with an intensity and a strength that matches her heaving sobs. I draw gentle circles on her back with a finger as she cries, trying to keep her grounded with my presence and my voice. "It'll be okay, it'll be okay Frida, you can let it out. I won't hurt you," I keep murmuring, a broken record of kind reassurances to the poor frail thing in my arms.
Her tears form wet spots on my own tunic, but I don't mind. It's better that she gets it all out now, here, rather than later in front of Ianthe and our Mistress. Her sobs eventually quiet down to heaving breaths and hiccups, and only then does she find her voice. "I-I... I can't... I'm sorry... I don't know what-"
Frida stumbles over her words and I squeeze her tight. "It's okay. You have survived this far, you will survive this, sweet thing. You don't have to apologize to me. Just breathe, okay? Can you do that for me?"
I can feel her nod against my chest. I watch her struggle to focus, to bring her emotions under control. "In, and out, that's it. In, hold it, and out, good girl," I say. She follows my direction, taking shaky breaths, holding them for a moment, and then letting them out. Eventually her racing heart calms down, and her breathing returns to a more regular pace.
When Frida speaks again, it's a soft whisper, broken and scared. "I don't know... I just saw in the mirror and I... I look like." She can't bring herself to say it.
I finish her sentence. "Like a slave. You looked in the mirror and saw a slave." I'm gentle but not hiding the truth from her. She swallows and nods, unable to admit it.
"I know what you're going through, sweet thing. It's hard, isn't it? Seeing yourself and not recognizing what you've been made into?"
Frida nods again. A single, choked noise escapes her lips. "I... I can't do this. I can't be like, like you."
I smile sympathetically down at her, my lips pressing into her choppy hair. "Yes, you can Frida. I understand this is difficult for you, but Ianthe and Mistress will expect performance. Not excuses or apologies. You'll learn to survive, and you'll adapt."
"How?" She breathes, lost. Hopeless.
My hand finds one of hers, and I squeeze tight. "It will become normal," I say. "At first, it will feel so overwhelming. But you can just focus on one thing at a time. And then the next. That's how we get through this, Frida."
She pauses, and I can see she's thinking through the advice, fighting with her internal desires for freedom. The desire to fight conflicts with the pain it has caused her. "Does it get any easier?" she asks, her voice low. That's good - this is how acceptance starts.
"It does." I don't lie to her. "But not entirely. It becomes normal."
She stays in my arms for a few more moments, and I continue my gentle stroking motions across her back. After a little while of silence, I squeeze her hand. "Frida, are you able to stand? You'll feel a lot better with some proper food in you, and then we'll start on your training."
She nods, and I guide her up onto her feet. "Good girl." I brush my hand past her cheek in a tender motion, and I can see how much she already craves that affirmation, that sense of kindness that likely nobody has shown her in a long time.
I look down at my own tunic, seeing the visible damp patches there. "Wait here. I need to replace my uniform." She nods. I look into her eyes for a few moments. She won't run - she's past running. So I leave her standing awkwardly in the hallway. She'll learn proper posture later.
It only takes me a few minutes to slip away and find a replacement uniform in my size. I strip out of my damp tunic, untying and retying the sash around my waist with practiced motions. I take a brief look in the mirror to ensure everything is in order, mostly out of habit at this point, and then return to where I left Frida. She's waiting exactly where I left her, staring out at the rest of the baths. Already so compliant.
I gesture for her to follow and she does, her leash left forgotten on a shelf in the bathhouse. I won't need it anymore. She's already broken. My job is to put the pieces back together into something better.