Chapter 31

Acknowledgment

“I’ve been chasing a ghost my whole life, and its porcelain-white eyes that had taken me; now, I lay hollow beneath the dirt. Lightless.”

My Ghosts, Vol. I

Myrell felt like crying, yet there seemed to be no tears in her eyes anymore; the past week had been painful, so much so that she had almost wished her Master had whipped her instead. Every day, for hours on end, she was forced to spend time with him, talking, learning, getting insulted, and insulting. She had never known the language was capable of producing so much filth, in such mysterious ways, that it was beyond terrifying.

However, she did learn a lot, she knew that. The confidence she had in her skills of wrapping others around her fingers… was shattered. Her Master offered her the actual reality, the art of understanding others – she was, at best, a novice, someone who'd taken the first step. There was so much more to it that it was impossible to even compare the two. It was scary, if she were truthful with herself; terrifying, even, the ways in which her Master was able to disintegrate her facades and her barriers. He always seemed to know what she was thinking and could get her to do or say anything he wanted.

“… you listening?” his angry voice sparked her back into reality as she shuddered, meeting the pair of breathtaking, yet horrifying, blue eyes.

“Y-yes, of course!” she exclaimed.

“… haah, I know it’s not easy,” he said, rubbing his temples. He did seem a bit tired these past few days, she realized. “But I really do need you to get this right, Myrell.”

“… I know.” She nodded, putting on a serious expression. “Master… you seem tired. Would you mind if I gave you a massage?”

“… a massage?”

“Hm,” she nodded. “I am fairly confident in it.”

“Like you were confident in your seduction skills?”

“… ugh.”

“Fine,” he chuckled. “Give it a shot.”

Myrell got up and wound around the narrow cabin, sitting onto the bed while her Master sat down onto the stool. His back was immeasurably broad, she quickly realized, and incredibly firm, like a stone. No matter where or how hard she pressed with her five fingers, she only ever came across muscles. Even using her forearm and elbow yielded no different results; he seemed more a perfect sculpture rather than a man of flesh.

“You have to press harder,” he said. “I don’t mind being felt up, but I could really use a massage…”

“…” Myrell flushed faintly against her will, pressing harder. He was immune, she knew; it wasn’t just toward her, but toward everyone – now, somehow, more than ever before. There was a sort of barrier all around him, keeping everyone else at bay. “Has Master… ever loved anyone?” she blurted out.

“… hm? Where’s that coming from?” he asked her back.

“… c-curiosity…” she mumbled.

“Hmm,” he hummed, rising one of his hands and stroking his chin. “Once or twice, I think. Didn’t last, though.”

“Why?”

“One of them tried to kill me,” he said nonchalantly. “And the other one… well, I suppose it’s a bit complicated.”

“A-ah, s-sorry…” Myrell said, biting her lower lip.

“Eh? What for?”

“M-master has suffered so much, and I reminded you…” she said.

“… I didn’t, really,” he said after a brief silence. “Heartbreak is rather easy to recover from, comparatively. Have you?”

“… what?” she asked absentmindedly.

“Ever loved?”

“… no.” she said.

“… that’s a shame,” he said, glancing up at her with a faint smile. “Women, from my experience, are at their most beautiful when in love.”

“…” Myrell turned to silence, captivated by the pair of honest eyes. Her Master was strange, too strange; he was nothing like any of the other ones she'd had, and nothing like any other she'd heard of. He may be cruel in his own ways, but that cruelty seems underlined by a potent desire for simplicity. It was difficult to put into proper thoughts, she realized; in a way, he seemed entirely disinterested in everything around him so long as it wasn't of benefit for him directly, yet he paid attention to the smallest of things – like his own slaves' insecurities. And, rather than making a joke out of them, he acknowledged them as flaws and encouraged them to fix them. “How come?” she asked back, replying his smile with her own.

“It’s the human condition,” he said, leaning closer into her legs, closing his eyes. “You gals… change, when in love. The shine in your eyes grows, your voice softens, your laughter somehow becomes even more bewitching. All that makes you unique and special… is amplified, hundredfold.”

“…” Myrell’s arm stopped moving as she lowered her head; his words struck a chord in her rotted heart, tugged at the solitary light in her desolate soul. “You seem to hold a lot of respect for us…” she mumbled, watching him spin around and face her with a faint smile.

“… when I was fourteen,” he said. “A woman saved my life. She hid me in spite of dozens of men looking for me, breaking into homes at will. They broke into hers, beaten her, broken her jaw, raped her, and killed her. Throughout, she refused to say anything about me.”

“…”

“Tell me, Myrell, should that be necessary for us to respect each other? She forwent her dignity, pride, her life – all to protect a boy she'd known for two days. Men or women… we all have equal capacity for good as we do for evil. The least we can do, I think, is acknowledge one another. If anything," he added, his fingers suddenly pressing against her chin, lifting it up. "In my bones, I am far more terrified of an angry woman than I am of a man. The latter I know what he'll do; with the former, she could bide her time for years, if not decades. You try and find a man who can keep his anger at bay for longer than a week, and you will have found a miracle."

“…” she was too weak, she thought as she felt tears cradle her cheeks. Yet, he wouldn't let her hide her face – his fingers firmly held her head up, forcing her to square his eyes. It was torture like no other, yet the flood seemed to have changed something inside of her.

"… however," he said, pulling her back. "The biggest mistake you can make in life is growing dependent on others' views of you. The only person you should expect respect from… is yourself. Nothing else matters."

“… why?”

“What?”

“… why are you nice to us?” she asked, swallowing her tears.

“Am I, though?” he grinned. “You’ve done nothing but complain how demonic I’ve been recently.”

“… you don’t beat us,” she continued. “You don’t curse us. You don’t belittle us. You feed us, clothe us, give us a place to live, even pay us… why? We are just slaves…”

“…” he’d grown silent, and she was too terrified to look back up. She’d gone out and asked all the things that she wanted to know almost since the very beginning.

“… why?” he mumbled. “Unfortunately, I don’t get off on other people’s misery.”

“—e-eh?” she looked up, somewhat shocked, and found his faintly smiling face.

“Why would I do any of those things? Whether you’re slaves or not, beating you won’t accomplish anything. And I am fairly certain I do belittle you on occasions when I’m bored. To me, the saddest part of it all is that you’re more terrified that I hadn’t done any of those things,” he sighed, getting up, stretching. “Though, I suppose, everywhere… it’s the same. Cruelty… always finds a way to reign supreme. In the future, Myrell,” he looked down at her, his playful expression gone, replaced with a cold and detached one. “I’ll do so many cruel things, you’ll find yourself retching your guts in disgust.”

“No, I—”

“When that day comes,” he smiled all of a sudden; it was a pained smile, Myrell realized. A very, very, very pained smile, one hiding the heart that has been broken too many times. Just like hers. Just like Sash’s. Just like Evel’s. Just like Syl's. "Remind me that, once upon a time, there were at least a few of you that believed I was a nice person. Not just the demon I'll inevitably become."

“… we’ll never think that.” She said confidently, grabbing his hand, seemingly surprising him as he glanced at her grip.

“… that’s naïve, Myrell,” he sighed. “I am nice to you all… because I need you. Tell me: what do you think I’d do if I no longer needed you?”

“What you have to.” She said.

“I’d kill you.”

“… I know.”

“So, then,” he suddenly smiled again. “Ensure you’re never useless to me. For starters, I recommend working on those massaging skills.”

“…” Myrell sighed inwardly, her lips curling up into a smile. Her Master… was a strange, strange creature. But, at the same time, he was not. She remembered his words, that everyone has the capacity for both good and evil; in that realm, he fit. Just like everyone else did, good or evil.

She decided, at that moment, to become useful; not necessarily to save her own skin, though that did play a role, but to repay his faith, kindness, and expectations of her. She didn’t know what her Master was planning, or what he wanted to do in the future, but she knew he couldn’t do it alone – for that, she had to become someone he could rely on, no matter what. If it means meeting young Lords and Ladies and squaring off against the abuse, she’d do it. If it meant becoming the Master’s light, the object seen by the world, she’d do it. She’d take on his cruelty, and accept him – just like he had accepted her, shortcomings and all. She’d repay the acceptance, no matter what he ended up doing.