It was so much easier yet so very much harder this time.

 

She had to fuck (or, rather, be fucked by) one elderly dark elf, not an entire room of men, and after more than a year of Urag’s orcish cock,  Savos’ - Master’s, she reminded herself, it would not do to think of anyone by a real name – dick seemed thin and reedy. It felt more like being fingered than fucked. 

 

It was a perfunctory fuck, void of meaning except to relieve Sav…Master’s physical need. He finished then told her to straighten up his rooms then ignored her. It was entirely impersonal, and that somehow wounded her more than physical blows would have. It was a sharp reminder of her place: an object, a possession. Less than a person, less even than most animals. She existed only to do Master’s will, a tool to be used how he chose.

 

It was an important lesson. The sooner she was able to re-implant that truth into her brain, the easier it would be to bear the years of emptiness that stretched before her. She had allowed herself to be taken in by an illusion, though she had known better. Now, with the veil lifted so the sparkling truth could be revealed, she strove to remember all of Borkul’s lessons; they were the key to her survival.

 

The new collar was likewise physically easier to bear – it was a simple thin strip of silvery material, not the ungainly hunk of blackened iron she had worn before. Yet, when Master clicked it into place around her neck, it felt just as weighty. A heavy darkness she hadn’t realized was missing seemed to spring from the shadows and envelop her, bringing to fresh mind all that she had been through.

 

Also, the damn thing blocked magic, as she learned when she tried to cast spells to help her clean Master’s room. She made a small grunt of annoyance when the mana refused to coalesce at her command. It made sense, she supposed – it wouldn’t do to have slaves who could just teleport away on a whim. She, of course, would not have done such a thing (although, for the first time in her slave life, the idea did tickle her deepest fancy), but others certainly would, provided the opportunity.

 

The Archmage’s quarters were a minor revelation; Master kept it packed full of things that made Aithne want to stop and play or experiment or read. She discovered many of the books she had been unable to find in the Arcaneum, works referenced by other books that would have filled gaps in her understanding of many things. She flipped through them as she moved them from tables to bookshelves, but that only caused the itch to read them to grow. She imagined Urag’s reaction if he ever found out that the Archmage had secreted away some of the key books from the library shelves, and that led to a small smile.

 

Not that he could have done anything about it, much like he hadn’t been able to do anything about her being taken. The thought erased the smile and she set the rest of the books in place without cracking the covers – they weren’t for her, had never been.

 

Master appeared at her side once again as she began gathering up a large assortment of papers, scrolls, and books that all seemed to pertain to some place called Labyrinthian, which she had heard of only in passing.

 

“That’s enough for today,” Master said as he took a slew of papers from Aithne’s hand. “Go back to your cell.”

 

He placed the papers back on the desk, by all appearances already forgetting her presence, which was an issue for Aithne. She frowned, trying to remember the proper way to ask a necessary question, already fearing the pain that usually accompanied the answer.

 

Oh, right. How could she forget? She lowered herself to her knees and bowed her head and, after a fearful pause, whispered, “Master?”

 

“Hm? Why are you still here? Do I need to remind you of your place again?” The fire whip hissed as it appeared in his hand.

 

Aithne cringed as her eyes focused on the glowing strand of pain. “I am sorry, Master, I just…don’t know how to get to my cell.”

 

“Oh! Of course, Urag had you all to himself in his room, didn’t he? Just touch your collar – it will bring you to the cells.”

 

The whip disappeared and Aithne took a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Thank you, Master.” She did not expect a response and, in this, at least, she was not disappointed. She reached up and pressed her fingers against the smooth surface of the collar.

 

Teleportation felt strange when the energies could not be felt. Or, rather, didn’t feel strange. There was no deluge of power, no sense of movement or displacement. One moment she was kneeling in the Archmage’s quarters, the next she was kneeling in a room she did not recognize.

 

It was a spacious square that contained only four beds, two on each side. Two doors stood at opposite ends of the room, both closed and, Aithne assumed, locked. Diffuse light filled the room from an unseen source, presumably a Light spell cast on the ceiling.

 

Three other humans were in the room. A man and a woman, both blonde Cyrodillans, stood near the door to Aithne’s right while another woman, a dark-haired Breton, sat cross-legged on one of the beds. Like Aithne, all three wore nothing but a silver band around their necks.

 

All three spoke at once: “What in Oblivion?” “Who the hells are you?” “That’s a nasty burn.”

 

Aithne pushed herself to her feet, fighting to keep from covering herself even as she felt a blush run down her body. How could she have lost so much of her training that she felt embarrassed to be naked? She cleared her throat.

 

“I’m Aithne. I’m…new.” A pause. She had never really had interactions with other slaves before, aside from sitting in silence in cages while waiting for their Masters to finish their business. She wasn’t sure how to proceed. “Um…hi?”

 

Silence for a long moment, then the woman on the bed stood and stepped toward her, holding out a hand. “Hi, I’m Shelinng.”

 

Aithne took the woman’s hand as an unexpected grin broke her face. “Oh, you are not. Is that your actual name?”

 

The woman frowned as she led the way to one of the beds, the one closest to the door to Aithne’s left. “This is your bed. It is the name I was given. Why is that funny?”

 

“Thank you. Given by…”

 

“By the one who gives us our names. Surely you have met him.”

 

Aithne pursed her lips as Shelinng dropped her hand. “Probably not. But I’ve had a…unique path to get here. I apologize, your name just took me by surprise. Shelinng is the name of the author of a book on the basics of magic. All the students here get to read it their first year. Those who are still awake after get to continue their studies. It just…struck me as funny that you would share his name.”

 

The blonde woman gasped. “Were you a student here?”

 

“No, I just…studied some.” She didn’t want to think about the life – or the illusion of life – that had just been torn from her. Borkul’s greatest lesson, Aithne realized in a flash of insight, was to forget the past. Dwelling on it only led to pain; better that it never happened. She took a haggard breath to subdue a sudden keening wail that longed to tear itself from her throat and sat down on the bed.

 

“Ah. I am Mihki…” Aithne snorted back another laugh “…and this is Zaszil.”

 

“Oh, that is too funny. So you are the founder of interdimensional physics and he is an expert in leyline distribution and topography. Our Master who gives out names is well read! I suppose my name will be Wiba or Shido’ib.”

 

“Not Wiba,” the man, Zaszil, said. “She usually works in the kitchen.”

 

“Of course she does.” Aithne sighed and stretched out on the bed. It was surprisingly comfortable. If she had to be a slave – and she did, no matter how much she had pretended otherwise – the College of Winterhold appeared to be a great place for it.

 

“So…if you weren’t a student, what were you? Before?”

 

Such a simple question, yet it raised a host of emotions and flashes of memory that she fought with furious purpose to tamp back down as she glanced at Mihki. “My best advice to you…to all of you…is to forget the past. It never happened. It was just a dream.” She turned away, stared at the blank ceiling. “It is the only way to stay sane.”

 

“I can’t do that!” Mihki sounded stricken. “I want to go home! Surely after the war is over…”

 

“If it ever ends,” Zaszil interjected.

 

“It will.” Shelinng’s laugh sounded bitter. “The Stormcloaks took Whiterun and Falkreath without too much trouble, and that was a year ago, at least. Assuming they didn’t do something stupid like enter The Reach to tangle with the Foresworn, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn they had taken Morthal by now, if not more. I think our new friend is right – the only chance we might have of going home is if the Empire sends more legions to really quash this rebellion instead of treating it like a minor annoyance.” A sigh. “And you know how stubborn the Court is.”

 

“But…”

 

Aithne could hear poor Mihki’s world crumble in that single word. She sighed, sat back up, and gave them the full truth, the truth that Borkul had given her. The truth that was painful to hear but necessary for survival.

 

“We are slaves. We will always be slaves. There is no past, there is no future. There is only now, only what our Masters require at this moment. The sooner you realize that and release yourselves from the burden of hope, the less painful this will be.” She looked around the stark room, a haven of unimagined luxury compared to what she had gone through with Borkul. “And believe me when I say, you should feel grateful to be slaves in a place like this. It could be…so much worse.” A vision of Sutfu’s maniacal grin filled the space for a brief moment, and she shivered and curled onto her side on the bed, face toward the wall, and closed her eyes.

 

A long silence, then Shelinng’s whispered voice. “So I see. Look at those scars.”

 

“What happened to your eye?” Mihki’s voice sounded lost and hollow, hopefully an indication that she was beginning to understand.

 

“So much worse.” Aithne closed her eye and tried to ignore the fresh desperation that engulfed the room; tried to let go of the same desperation in herself. She thought back to Borkul, to her lessons from him, trying to remember how it felt to surrender, to separate herself from the pain of existence. But try as she might, her mind returned to a different orc; to Urag’s gentle touch, his hearty laugh, the light in his eyes when he looked at her or at their son.

 

How do you hurt someone who has lost everything? Give them something better, then take it away again. Despite her words to her new roommates, Aithne wasn’t sure she would be able to let go this time, and that thought filled her with more dread than a thousand whips ever could.

 

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