The air felt cold between the master and her retainer as it touched the dripping water running down the two of them onto the grass beneath them. Seran, looking rather perplexed towards Brenda, sighed and smiled at her. For the first time, he felt like he could trust Brenda, and after all, he already slipped up, so he felt comforted in a way.
"You know, I was warned to keep a formal tone at all times, otherwise I would end up like my parents and siblings before me."
Seran said with a sigh, "They didn't make it out of Ranbais, or rather, they are still there in a way."
"What do you mean?" Brenda raised her eyebrow as she leaned in closer. "You can speak your mind here, Seran. Nothing will offend me."
"I've never been allowed to speak my mind, Brenda." Seran laughed shortly for the first time, and it caused Brenda to find a bit of joy, "I have never even been allowed to call my master by a first name."
"Well, there is proof that I am different, Seran." Brenda smiled softly before turning back to a straight face, "Now, please tell me what happened to your family."
"My siblings are still enslaved there, and my parents, well," Seran said with a shake of his head, "returned to the planet or as some elves may say that they were given the ultimate mercy."
"I see." Brenda said as she looked away for a moment, "I am sorry to hear that, Seran. I—I had no idea."
"Of course." Seran said with another heavy sigh, "Elves are not to talk of their past because all that matters is their uses for their current master. It's awful that we cannot talk about our parents or siblings, how our childhood went, or even things that I have seen in this world that are both good and bad. I don't understand why not, but I was warned that I would be quickly put to death if I were to mention anything about them."
"It's because it inspires hope, Seran." Brenda said sorrowfully, "My mother told me that I am not allowed to ask our elves about their past either. I almost killed one of my maids when I was younger because I asked her to tell me stories."
"It's a cruel fate that we must live by." Seran said, stirring as he stared upwards towards the starry night sky, "Cursed to suffer, and it is against our faith to die by our own hands. We look towards a glimpse of hope no matter what. It's as if the idea of hope continues to drive us forward."
"Cursed to suffer?" Brenda asked with a frown, "What makes you say cursed?"
"We are born with these marks," Seran said lifting his shirt, his face slightly red with embarrassment, revealing a small mark in the center of his chest. The mark that Seran wore on his chest was similar to the marks that Brenda saw as unfortunate elves were beaten—a dark blue mark that started as a spiral in the middle of the chest with tendrils that spun out towards the arms, legs, and neck. "Every single elf has a mark like this, Brenda."
"Huh?!" Brenda exclaimed as she pointed at the mark, "I thought these marks were placed by the church. I was told that each elf was grateful to provide their service. After all, it's written in the holy scriptures."
"Does that sound right to you?" Seran's eyes widened with surprise before lowering his head, "After seeing how you are to us, I'd like to believe you don't see things like that, but it would make sense that you were raised to believe that elves were grateful to be maids and servants. In truth, Brenda, no one is happy being forced to anything, but that's how we live every day."
After a few moments of silence, something clicked in Brenda's mind. It did make sense for her to see things like that, but now, she can finally see the other side of things. She turned away from him as tears began to stream down her face.
"Aaaa-"Seran exclaimed as he brought his head to the ground instantly, "I am so sorry, Miss Brenda. I didn't mean to insult you or hurt your feelings. I will accept any punish—"
"Seran!" Brenda said curtly as she stood upright. Another moment of silence passed as Brenda looked upon Seran with tears still streaming down her face. Her lip quivered as she took a breath of air and swallowed hard. "I am not upset because your words hurt me. I am sad because your words rang true with me."
"Th—They did!? That quick?!" Seran raised his head as quickly as he lowered it. His jaw was slightly agape in disbelief until he shook his head to bring himself back to clarity. "You see it the way most of us do? I thought it would be a really big shock to you—you are surprising."
"It's not hard to see." Brenda said while wiping the tears from her eyes, "I've seen our elves' treatments as a sad thing since I was young. Even though my maids and every elf we own is nice to me, I could always see the sadness in their eyes. "
Seran looked into Brenda's eyes and saw a similar sorrow to what she was speaking. She, undoubtedly, was speaking the truth to him. This idea was unbelievable—to connect with a human on a subject like this.
"Please." Brenda spoke clearly as she looked upon Seran with sorrowful eyes, "Please tell me about Ranbais. I want to know how you and your family were treated."
Seran rose to his feet, took off his shirt, and wrung his shirt out onto the ground beside him before dropping it to the ground. He looked at Brenda with another heavy sigh, and he then turned to gaze skyward as the stars began to appear visible in the heavens above. The stars looked like shimmering diamonds wedged in the cave of the atmosphere, asking for weary travelers to gaze upon their beauty and admire from afar because a single touch would bring them impurity.
"It's not a good story," Seran said as he turned away slowly from Brenda, and as he did, Brenda let out an audible gasp of horror as she stared at his back. Seran's back was horridly decorated with lengthy jagged scars, including a long scar that went straight across from Seran's right shoulder to the left side of his hip, and various darkened blotches of skin that looked like they were singed.
"While I am no longer part of Ranbais, it will always be a part of me," Seran said with a heavy sighed as he clenched his fists in slight rage. If Brenda could see his face, she would see a face that was trained to be accepting of his fate, but his eyes told a different story—one of remembrance of tantalizing pain and sorrow.
Ten years ago:
The sound of a large horn's song blared through the early morning air as the sun had just begun to rise from behind the large mountain range that surrounded a large indent in the land. The land inside the indent was wet and marsh-like, most likely due to the land being below sea-level, which left every footstep into the land drenched within a slosh puddle of mud. This indent of land nested a large city that seemed to be sinking into the ground, but seemed halted magically for the sake of settlement; however, on the outskirts of this town resided a large ranch with various wooden houses and a large mansion in the middle of it all—this mansion was known as Kopalsyls Manor, and the sound of the horn was loud enough for the town to hear it on a windless day.
The horn's cacophony continued to beat down on the wooden houses outside of the manor, and within moments of it playing, large groups of elves burst from the rotting wooden doors and rushed outside as if their lives depended on it. The groups of elves consisted of both men and women along with boys and girls, which separated themselves into their respective piles of genders, and stood at attention, awaiting orders while the horn continued to play. To elven ears, this noise was deafening, and many of the children tried covering their ears, but the adults quickly slapped their hands down to prevent them from becoming punished.
One of these children was a small, frail boy around the age of seven with brown hair and covered with freckles across his face despite the paleness of his skin. The boy was very skinny, almost starved, which was easy to see as he was shirtless like the rest of the elven men, and the only piece of clothing he had on was a small tattered pair of brown shorts. He twitched hard when his hand first touched his ear to suppress the sound and felt the single notch in his ear, but his ear hurt even more when his hand was slapped away from it.
"Seran. Enough!" A taller elven man quietly scolded as he went back to his attention stance. This was the man that slapped Seran's hand away from his ears. The man was tall and muscular, but heavily worn as various and deep scars coated his torso and shoulders, and similarly, there were more scars and fresh wounds on his back. The thing that stood out most was the man's crest that spanned out across his torso as it wrapped its way around his back and arms to complete a full circle while the tendrils of the crest had not yet moved to his neckline.
"Sorry, Father," Seran said softly back as he lowered his hands to his side to mimic his father's stance. He attempted to stand at attention like the other men and boys around him, but his gaze fell forward towards the manor doors as a short portly man with wispy but combed brown hair waddled slowly out of the wooden embroidered doors, followed by two taller and muscular men.
This portly man was well-groomed and seemed too proper for the surroundings as his gait was more prideful than the neatly waxed handlebar mustache he wore on his face. His clothing supported the idea that he was a high noble as he wore a finely tailored, red tailcoat suit that seemed to be made from an exquisite fabric. Some elves, in secret, estimated the suit cost more than half of the slaves on the ranch combined, and they probably weren't wrong.
The two men behind the portly man were dressed in firm navy-blue suits, complete with a black-tie that reached midway down their chests. Around their waists, they wore a giant belt with a larger whip hanging from a metal hook attached to the belt loop on their right side. These men, twins, looked upon the group of elves with a piercing glare from their angry brown eyes, and they gave no fraction of a smile towards the group either from their tightly thin lips.
The portly man began to yawn as he looked over towards the group of half-naked male elves and then shifted his eyes towards the female elves. The female elves were each given a tattered gray dress, which most had theirs' covered in dirt and blood, and all of them were very malnourished with their cheek-lines sunken in more than usual for elves. The female group stood with their hands in front of their legs as they awaited their master's next words.
"Every morning—" The portly man said with another yawn before lifting his left hand to fiercely point at each group individually multiple times as if he was jabbing at the hearts of the slaves as one would with a sword, "Every morning, I am met with this unpleasant sight, and I grow more and more disappointed with you lot every day. Yesterday, we reported only one hundred and twenty kilos of Mifflin Weed and eight hundred kilos of Baldric Rock. This was a low margin for this time of year, and your progress is sorely lacking."
The portly man's finger stopped on a random female elf, and he motioned for the elf to come closer to him. This elf was on the older side, but not elderly as she looked around the age of forty, and her dress was covered in multiple layers of dirt, distorting the original color of the dress. The elf, without delay, rushed over to him and gave a polite bow of her head.
"You." The portly man said with a stern tone as he walked right up to her face and grabbed it harshly with his right hand. He lowered her face to his and began to speak, spitting with each word, "If I am to recount correctly of how many females I have working in my fields, I would say that I have at least two hundred of you. Surely, two hundred of you could pick four hundred kilos of Mifflin Weed on average, yes?" He dropped her face as it had begun to become severely red from his strong grip, "Can you tell me why the amount yesterday was so low?"
"N—No, I cannot, sir." The female elf said with worries in her eyes and voice, "I do not know why—"
The female was interrupted by a forceful slap to the face by the portly man, which sent her a few feet away from his location to collide with the ground and dirt. She looked up towards him with absolute horror as blood streaking down her face from her nose and lips. The portly man spat on the ground towards her before looking back towards the female group.
"Perhaps you all needed a reminder of who is the master here and who are the slaves. Your pathetic lot better get the progress up to the proper amount today or you all will end up like her." The portly man spat out in anger as he began stomping his feet and kicking the dirt like a wild boar towards the female elves.
He then turned to the group of elven men, who looked back at him with fearful eyes and stone-like lips as a universal thought of similarity went through all their heads, and the portly man motioned for someone to come up to him. The man stared at the group of elven men as they didn't move forward, but kept their statue-like figures, which made the portly man's face contort in absolute anger.
"It seems that I must make an example for all of you! " The man shouted at the top of his lungs as he held out his hand towards the group, and the hand immediately was engulfed in magical fire. A wicked smile grew across the man's face, "Perhaps, something more severe."
Without emotion on their faces, all of the elven men remained still in spot, silent enough to be mistaken for scarecrows; however, the hand clothed in licking flames slowly moved towards the group, and it stopped moving as it faced a young child—Seran. A wicked smile grew across the portly man's face, "Perhaps, something more severe."
"Step forward, boy!" The portly man barked in an almost inhuman tone, "Best to make an example of a slave who can't hold the weight of their elders." The portly man shouted as he reached his hand skyward and shouted, "Fairebolt!" A large ball of flame circled in the palm of the man's hand before shooting off at tremendous speed as a loud blast of sound filled the air, causing Seran to fall backwards onto his behind in fear.
The elven men adverted their gaze entirely while two sets of eyes fell on Seran, those eyes were the master's and his father's.
Seran, slowly coughing as he got up from the dirt, met face to face with his master as he had bent down to meet Seran on the ground and promptly pushed him back into the dirt. Seran began to shake with fear as his eyes began to well up and his mouth dropped open to scream, but nothing came out. As Seran's eyes focused on the burning hand, the hand slowly lowered to the master's side as it became extinguished.
"This is even more pathetic of a show." The master said with a frown as he faced the group who looked onward with emotionless eyes. "How am I to set an example if only the child is scared of the punishment?" He looked back towards Seran, who began to maneuver backward on his hands and feet slowly to get away from him. The man's frown turned into a cocked smile as he reached forward and grabbed Seran by his neck.
The portly master lifted Seran into the air as Seran began to squirm while his coughing became louder and louder due to the choking grip of his master.
The master began to chortle—a kind of laugh that sounded like a water bucket scraping the side of the well on its way up from a tattered rope. His eyes fell back on the group as he spoke loudly, "No, I think that you all sacrificed this child to me the moment I chose him, and you care not for him as you'd rather save your own skins. Is he meant to take the blame for you, or will someone care to benefit his soon-to-be unfortunate fate? I expected some type of resistance, but I guess not from you spineless ingrates."
Silence continued to wash over all groups before the master, and then a stirring began in the crowd of elven men. The crowd began to slowly part as a single elven man came forth, and Seran immediately recognized this man as his father. As the stride of this man walked closer and closer to him, the man walked slowly and got within a foot of the master before dropping to both of his knees and laying his head and hands out for his master.
"I will speak for us all. Please return the boy to the group, Master Parsus." Seran's father spoke a quiet and harsh voice as if his throat had been dried for several days. He looked upon his master with an expression of defeated resolve as he pleaded clearly, "Please let him live, my lord. Take my life instead."
"How dare you speak before I address you!" Parsus shouted as his face contorted again in anger. In a quick motion, he launched his right foot down to stomp his servant's face firmly into the dirt and mud. "You want to taste your grave before you lie in it? That's fine with me!"
"F—Fa—tha--!" Seran screamed out the best he could with a hand around his throat, which made Parsus throw him to the ground. Seran landed with a loud thud as Seran now began to cough up blood. He looked at his father with tears in his eyes, to which his father only nodded in affirmation.
"The boy's father?!" Parsus began to cackle as he stuck his hand out towards the father and son, "How fitting that a family line will die before the sun fully rises." As a final remark for them, he looked away from the father and son, and he turned towards the group, shouting, "Let this be a reminder to you lot now that you are all expendable! Do not cross me again!" Fire engulfed the man's hand again, more fierce than the last time, as he shouted out, "Scoarch!"
Seran cowered away in fear from his master, leaving his back to take the brunt of the attack. Seran felt the flames lick away at the skin on his back, screaming out in searing pain, but the attack seemed weaker for some reason. Seran had seen this spell cast on other slaves, and it usually incinerates them almost immediately.
As Seran turned around, his eyes widened, and his jaw dropped in a mixed emotion of pain and agony. Staring him in the face was his reason for being alive as his father, now blackened to a crisp, was standing in between him and his master. Tears streamed down Seran's face as he sat on the ground, unable to mutter anything but incoherent sounds.
"M—My son." Seran's father coughed as he smiled. His skin began to harden to an ash gray tone and his brown hair that reached lower than his shoulders was now burned away, leaving him bald and almost unrecognizable. With a final cough, Seran's father tried to move his hand towards the sobbing boy, and with an almost silent voice, said, "Do your best to live."
Seran watched as his father turned into an ashen statue before his very eyes, and the pain of seeing his father die along with the pain that seared across his back left him in a sobbing mess. He tried to call out for his father, but no words came as the sobbing overwhelmed him. Far to the side of him, a middle-aged elven woman was crying silently on the ground as she was doing her best to restrain a young girl, around the age of five, in her arms.
"What a mess. One still lives." Parsus spat out as he walked forward, covering his mouth from the smell of burning corpse and ash. He looked down at the boy with disgust in his eyes, and then he turned towards the corpse. With a single motion, Parsus kicked at the corpse, and it fell into a mound of ash and bone onto the ground, leaving Seran to stare at the mound before collapsing, unable to see his father's face anymore.
Parsus scoffed at the crying boy as he took a step back from the mound. He cleared his throat and turned away as he spoke loudly, "Let this be a lesson to you all! Now, all of you, get back to work! Leave the boy alone here for all I care. I've seen enough of you ingrates, today. You are dismissed!"
The crowd of people dispersed as Seran was left in the dirt, leaving only the woman and girl from before as they approached him. The young girl was crying loudly as she knelt and hugged Seran, who remained motionless on the ground with tears still streaming down his face. The woman knelt to the ash mound and said a small prayer aloud:
"Ophia. Please be with this departed soul. He returns to you a humble servant."