Easier

I wish I could say that it is getting easier, growing accustomed to this new life. It is, slowly, but it's taking time. I have had to learn where the best places are to find the bosk chips, learn what food I am allowed to cook and what is to be stored. I once complained, if only to myself, of the amount of dishes and dusting I had to do. I'm finding that the chores I have now are much greater, but too, they serve a greater purpose. Before, while the chores were necessary, it was more for show. Dust free house, pressed clothing, flowers in vases, plenty of goodies cooked, along with various beverages available. Floors scrubbed to a beautiful shine. For what? The comfort of living in a nice house but also as a way of showing off for guests who would come.

For my Master, and his people, it seems different. These chores are not just a necessity but is key to survival. Master doesn't seem to care if his clothes are seamed just so, or even if there is a spot on them that cannot be scrubbed out. As long as they are warm and clean, he seems content enough. If his wagon is neat and not tracked by water or mud, he seems pleased. I have yet to pick a full basket of bosk dung, yet he has not forced me to sleep outside yet. I spent ahns each day, seeming a little more time as of late, gathering what I can find to bring back to his camp. I make sure the botas are filled, each day and each night. I've taken to airing out his furs on the warmer days so he is met with a more fresh smelling bed once he is ready to settle that night. I wanted to arrange a few bowls with flowers for his wagon, but given how it seems that the people are here about the land, I am hesitant to pick any living thing that would not provide substance or use beyond just flash.

I've also started going thru his clothing, and taking a piece at a time in mending. Some no more than a small nick here or there, but at least with what I learned of sewing, I am able to make it look as good as new again. I wonder if he will notice? I've been gathering bits and pieces of fabrics I have found, and have started working on two projects. One, I am sewing a quilt for him, to place over his furs. Only the softest and most colorful swatches will be used for that, since I have noticed he seems to like colors. The other, I am more cautious of. I have had to be sneaky and use my arm to measure, along with the jacket that he often wears, but I'm trying to put together a new one for him. I really need leather rather than fabrics, but I don't know how to ask him without giving it away. I really want to surprise him. I thought maybe if I saw the other Master, Ogedaii, I could ask him how I can do this without alerting my Master. Of course, its a risk, but if its kept a secret, perhaps I will have found a way to please him after all. For now, I have all of this in a basket, stored in the back of the wagon. I'm hoping he doesn't look there any time soon. It's hard to do this between chores, but I've been taking it with me, hiding it in the smaller basket I usually use to pick berries in, should I be so lucky to find any, and when taking a rest, work on it then. Or early in the morning while preparing his meal while he sleeps. Any stolen moment I can take to myself, I work on these things. The quilt will take at least another two hands. The jacket maybe longer unless I can find some leather I can use. I have yet to admit to him that I know a little of making things with leather, so maybe there'll be more surprises than just the two when its done.

That dream has weighed so heavily on my mind. It really shook something inside of me. To an extent, I feel silly. Every slave dreams of that special man, for it is said a girl knows when she meets her true Master. Its a notion we grow up with, prattling about it during training and dreaming aloud with our friends. Its a notion I had never quite believed. A slave is nothing more than a beast. Bought and sold. A slave may have fifty owners in her lifetime if she has no serums. If she does, then she may have a hundred. One hand to another. Nothing is ever secure. One of the greatest reasons why I have never allowed myself to fully open. I couldn't possibly believe that a man would care what a beast thinks, dreams of or wants. What does it matter to him? By his questions alone that first night, he has indicated something very different to me than what I have led myself to believe. Perhaps it was just so he knew if I'd be worth a profit. Perhaps he truly was interested in what he now owns.

What that dream did make me realize is that it doesn't matter what I think or feel. I owe him this much. I owe him the right to know his slave as fully or as less as he chooses to. I know beyond any shadow of doubt that had that dream been real, and I was back in Port Kar, I would have been devastated. No man has ever made me ache and want as he does. No man has ever made me want to open myself and express all the things I have held so protectively inside. It has been too easy all of my life to put on a smile, sway the hips and wear the face expected of me, determined by who I was around. This man, I feel, sees right thru that. Or maybe I am hoping he does. I don't want to put on any faces for him other than what is the true me.

I want to be his. I want to remain his. I want my life dedicated to seeing to his pleasure and becoming worth something to him far more than a mere coin or bit of gold. I want him to want me with the same ache that I feel. I want to see him look at me and with that very look, have it tell me.. "mine".

There is such peace found when I am next to him at night, brushing his temples or my nails lightly along his back while he sleeps. A scribe once told me that you can see a person's true face when they sleep. I do see his face. I see his eyes, even though they are closed. I must wonder if he felt the teardrops that rolled to his arm the night after I had that dream. He has no idea how thankful I am and was to be at his side that night. Every night. Or at least until I fail the task of the bosk chip hunt...

My body is sore, as the work is much tougher. My hands are blistered, despite the gloves he gave me to wear. Barely at times can I keep my eyes open, given the ahns I put into what must be done. But I cannot say that I have ever been happier. He may call me Worthless Pink, but one day, my Master, I'll be anything but worthless to you.