Bound and Broken

- 2 -

Myla's P.O.V.

It had been easy enough, the transaction. The auctioneer had stammered and stalled as much he could, trying to convince the Queen that perhaps she was undermining the profit that he could have made off of me. In his eyes, he was expecting a bidding war to pipe up after the low starting point. The Quen, however, was very diplomatically letting the man know that he should reconsider questioning her. 

Honestly, I couldn’t have been bothered to pay attention to the conversation. I was far too concerned with scanning the crowd to try and catch a glimpse of any of the other people who had been sold off today. All the while, I was standing barefoot on the hot wooden stage with the high afternoon sun beating down on me. A strand of my now dirty auburn hair fell in my face, and I shook my head to toss it to the side. 

A second man came up behind me and tugged on the chains binding my wrists together, jolting me back to attention. He hissed a warning to me, breath stinking of ale even so early in the day. “Watch yourself, wench,” he said low. “If your actions cost us a profit.” 

Nervousness swelled in my gut as I tried in vain to find any calming purchase in the scene. The slaver didn’t need to finish his statement for me to know that my days would likely be numbered should this sale somehow not go through. The dull pain in my thighs and the painful scabs on my back were reminders enough to me that I was very much helpless without access to my magic. I could feel it faintly in the tips of my fingers—the subtle twinge of electricity that longed to arch and catch on my captors. If only.

If I wasn’t limited, I could have freed this entire ring of captives and taken the damned city for myself. But even as I thought this with some confidence, there was a part of me that started to shake and tremble in fear that I might have to go back to that camp. Gods, what was this? This wasn’t like me.

On the edges of my consciousness, I could hear something nagging at me until a whip cracked full on in front of my face. My eyes caught on the piercing blue eyes of the shirtless servant that stood beside Queen Olivette. His tanned skin and hard-cut jawline screamed strength and confidence, but the abject terror in his eyes held a silent warning that made my throat dry up in an instant. 

“Girl!” I heard the word again, looking up just in time to see the open palm flying straight at my face. The sting of a slap nearly spun me, dropping me to one knee on instinct as I bit back tears. “Address your new master,” the auctioneer said. I caught a slightly heftier coin purse being pocketed by the vile creature and was sickened by seeing my value so objectified in such a tangible way.

Once I was confident that I could hold my composure, I looked over to the Queen. She was an older woman and indeed beautiful by many standards. Her silvered hair was delicately braided into a low wrapped bun, and her attire was far less regal than I expected. Granted, that was likely to travel with greater ease. Her angular face turned up towards mine, and pale brown eyes narrowed on me. Thin lips curled into a snakelike grin as she all but dared me to be defiant one more time. 

After what felt like an eternity of waiting and weighing my options, My head dropped. “Your Highness,” I said. It didn’t quite sound like my voice, though I felt it leave my lips. It sounded meek and subservient, and that alone was infuriating and terrifying all wrapped up in one. 

The Queen looked me up and down, clearly amused by my situation. “Your name, girl,” she ordered.

“Myla,” came my reserved reply. 

The older woman contemplated my answer, the pieces seeming to fall in place as a devious shine sparked to life in her gaze. “Good,” Queen Olivette hummed in approval and raised her chin slightly, signalling for the slavers to hand over my chains to her control. But instead of leading me herself or allowing one of her soldiers to guide me, she handed the chain to her servant. 

The man looked almost confused and looked as though he would ask a question when the Queen cut him off with a sharp look. So, silently he held out one of his large hands for the chain to be set in. The sound of it rattled, and he flinched when he heard it. His eyes dropped to the cobblestone street and didn’t raise once more until we eventually left the square.

I was tugged along the crowded streets of the port city by my wrists- they had at least given me the courtesy of re-fastening my hands in front of me this time. At either side of me stood armed soldiers, nearly blocking me from view with their bulk. Their very presence unnerved me. I’d seen enough broken and battered women come into my Father’s court to know what purposes a purchase like me held. 

What would be my new lot?

As I was marched along through the city, whispers and looks seemed to follow. I was recognizable enough by the hair that fell in a loose braid down my back, the red color not usually seen here in a land that touted a primarily fair-haired population. But the rumor had already spread of my parentage, and it seemed a right sport for these peons to line up along the streets and spit vile insults at me. Even several children were joining in and pelting me with pebbles and stale bits of bread. 

Only once, when a bit of bread fell too close to the Queen, did the soldiers step in to stop the commotion. After a short distance, we came to an ornate carriage. Naturally, the queen was helped up into the enclosed space by her man-servant, and the soldiers stood guard as she steadied herself inside. “Chain her to the back,” she said with a flippant wave of her hand through the open door, and I saw the servant’s eyes widen in fear.

Once she was seated, the servant vanished inside the carriage as well, though the door remained open. I could hear muffled voices inside until the Queen ended the conversation with one simple “No.”

A moment later, the servant exited and looked sheepishly down at the street as he took my chains back from the soldier keeping me in place. He led me to the rear of the carriage and carefully brought my wrists up to eye level, fastening the chain to a ring that was affixed there at the back of the cab. He paused, sparing me one lone look while he nearly whispered to me. “Truly, I am sorry.”

It was so soft and so brief that I wasn’t even sure it had happened. But I couldn’t dwell on that, for as soon as he ducked into the carriage with the Queen and the soldiers all mounted their horses we were off. The carriage was moving at a fair clip, making me jog along behind it at a steady pace. I stumbled and nearly fell once, but was oh so kindly reminded by one of the soldiers that “If you fall, wench, we won’t stop them for you.” I could only pray that the journey wouldn’t be a long one. 

By the time we arrived at the gates of the palace, I was shaking in agony and panting as though I would pass out. My vision was blurry, and my bare feet were filthy and bloody from the dirt and rocks along the way. When the carriage stopped, I tried my hardest to remain standing, straining against the restraints for leverage. The pain was enough so that it took away from the sheer wonder that I would have felt otherwise seeing the imposing estate rising up over the horizon. Instead, I only felt dread and sickness.

A veritable frenzy unfolded on our little caravan once we entered through the main gate into the courtyard of the castle’s main entrance. Soldiers dismounted and signaled up to others before closing the gates, maids and footmen came spilling out of the palace doors to sweep the path free of debris, and several young squires sprang forth from seemingly nowhere to care for their seniors’ horses. 

Queen Olivette took her time exiting the carriage, smoothing out the bodice of her dress with one hand as the other was held by a footman offering her help down. She was met with a bow while I could barely hold my head up. “Get that one cleaned up and deliver it to my chambers after,” she ordered to one of the maids that had come out to greet the convoy, gesturing at me. “Come, Devra.” The Queen’s voice almost softened as she reached a hand back towards the carriage. 

So, the servant’s name was Devra. Somehow, I felt as though the name fit him. Devra bowed at the waist before kissing the Queen’s hand and following her guidance into the main door of the castle. He turned a glance back at me, soft black curls framing his strong face in a way that led me to believe his fate was far more agreeable than mine would be. 

A frenzy flew around me. The whole exchange had taken no longer than fifteen minutes, but it felt like hours with how tense my legs were from the journey. Finally my chains were passed off to the maids, who didn’t dare release me until I’d already been lead away from the entryway towards the stables. I couldn’t read their faces, not because of the pain, but because they were wholly stoic. 

No words were spoken to me as the two women set to be my watchers stripped me bare of the tattered rags that barely covered my wounds, and no care was taken to not cause me any more pain. The wounds on my back split open at the rough handling, and a hiss of pain escaped my lips as I doubled forward in near blinding pain. This display garnered a few disgusted gasps and a recoiling distrust clear on their faces. But I couldn’t help it. There I stood, nude and in burning pain, leaning over a large washtub filled with cold and dirty water. 

The maid to my left was silently trying to force me into the water. I nearly wretched out of sheer frustration when I heard a firm voice call from behind me. “Leave her,” the man said. “Queen Olivette has ordered me to apply a poultice from the herbalist on her wounds.” Shaking, I turned to look at the new person now witness to my shame. 

To my shock and awe, it was Devra. The man was clothed differently now, in simple loose clothes that looked freshly washed. I could hear the hay and the dirt shifting under his feet as he stepped closer, holding out a bowl of pale cream for the ladies to inspect. “Tend to her Majesty, if you please,” he added. “She’s got a new dress for the seamstress to modify.”

There was some hushed whispering behind hands as the two young women looked a bit flustered before they both scurried off to an unseen part of the castle to doGods knows what. I didn’t care. 

The wooden bowl of cream was set on a nearby ferrier’s stool, and the man – Devra – was quick to gently grip me by the arms to steady me. “Shush, it’s okay,” he said, voice now softer and warmer than it was moments ago. “You have nothing to fear from me. Here,” he stood and helped me regain my composure. I met his eyes with a tired reluctance in my expression. Devra guided me onto a clear bench to allow me to sit, draping a horse blanket over my shoulders for modesty and warmth in the ever dimming evening light.  

"Thank you," I managed to croak out in a whisper, tightening the blanket over myself. 

But Devra shook his head as he emptied out buckets from the washtub and replaced them with fresh water from the nearby well. "No, don't thank me," he sighed. "Mistress is often unkind to those she first acquires." His tone was rife with regret, and I wondered what had been done to him on his first days. His smile was gentle, but his eyes still held worlds of sadness even as he turned to me and offered a hand to help me back to my feet. "The least I could do was secure some sort of salve for your injuries."

I took his hand and felt warmed by the first genuine kindness shown to me in some time. True, Maggie had been like a second mother to me, but we had been captured together. We were bonded in suffering. This man...he knew nothing of me. He was a complete stranger, in an enemy house, and he was treating me like a person. 

Devra helped me into the water, and I slowly sank into the cold water. I hissed as the cold hit my wounds, and looked down to see the faint tendrils of red staining the water where blood had been wicked from my skin. he stood behind me, allowing me to modestly cover my chest as best I could without straining my back. "This might sting," he warned as I heard a cloth dip into the water. 

A faint cry left me when the wet cloth brushed my back. Tears burned at the corners of my eyes and I tried to stifle the noises while still holding myself in place. He withdrew, fearfully asking if he'd hurt me. "No," I replied. "They're tender, but it's no fault of yours."

That answer seemed to satisfy him, because he returned to the daunting task of removing weeks of grime and dirt from my skin. I could feel that he wanted to ask me questions, but something else was keeping him from actually speaking. So instead, I spoke up. "Devra? That is what she called you, yes?" He grunted in reply, so I continued. "I thought that Queen Olivette took you into the palace when we got home. Why are you out here now?"

"Yes," he replied, reaching up to gently tilt my head back so he could comb through my hair. "Mistress wanted me inside, but it was only to observe me as I changed into clean clothes." His voice dropped low, and I could feel the slight tremble of his hands. "I was free for the evening considering I'd already serviced her on the journey home," he added, bringing a knowing heat to my cheeks. "And one of her...rituals," he said as though he was searching for the right word to use. "Is to watch me as I wash and dress after our encounters."

My heart sank with a heavy realization. "So you're-"

"A pleasure slave," Devra finished for me, pausing as his hand was just over my shoulder. "I have been for nearly eight years now," he continued. 

Carefully, I turned as much as the small tub would allow me to look him in his eyes. I knew how the soldiers and the other servants treated such occupants of my father's court, so the pain that he likely felt was all too real to me. The man met my look and understood what words could not even begin to convey. A subtle nod was all the acknowledgment that passed between us, and the conversation eventually faltered and petered out.

I didn't blame him. I didn't feel much like talking anymore either.