Delta remained quiet and passive, as she had for the past few trials. She sat, a sense of calm still lulling her into relaxation that she had not felt for seasons, if not arcs. Conversation drifted over her from the three others in the room, and the slave heard it, but was barely listening. She recognised her Mistress’ voice - a woman who spoke far too much, especially when nervous. She wondered what, exactly, the naer was saying to try to convince Padraig to help. Did Lakia even know the half of it? The incident with the murder of the whore and arson had been explained in a fair amount of depth to Lakia, who had found her half-drowned in the bay.
But after that incident Delta had hardly been forthcoming, beyond the odd word of explanation for new injuries which Lakia had demanded. Lakia would not know of the rapes: that had left no mark that Lakia had thought to look for, thus she had not asked. Nor had Delta made any attempt to explain in depth the horrors or being whored out to the highest bidder. Not even Delta understood what had happened there. Lakia could easily pin-point three or four separate occasions where Delta had been found beaten to within an inch of her life.
When she heard Lakia directly address her, she looked up and focused, more on the signs than the words. She nodded gently, a lethargic movement, and offered the smallest of smiles. Her own fingers responded, as was natural for the pair of them to communicate in this way, their closest thing to a common language, signing back that she was, “not afraid now”.
The voices of the other two, however, while not combative, were hard and cold. Lakia and Delta were clearly unwanted. Again, as she had imagined on the Immortal’s Tongue, Delta believed that she was the cause of this unease. ‘This man really doesn’t like slaves’. Faith seemed gentle enough, but the slave instantly questioned Lakia’s decision to take her to Padraig. In Delta’s eyes, he had been at best dismissive and at worst disdainful of the slave’s presence with the team at the ruins. Now, little seemed to have changed, and even the woman was cold.
The woman, Faith, was still touching her, though now her hands had moved down to her wrist, and then on to collect a tub of cool cream, which she began to rub in circles along Delta’s arms and wrists. The woman was careful enough to avoid open sores, some self-inflicted, others not. She seemed to know what she was doing. Delta watched: her hands were gentle but her face, which did not look up, was not. The slave pulled her hands away, curling them inwards to her chest. “Lakia,” she called for the woman's attention, then signed, “Thry don't like slaves. They don't like me here. I want to go. Now.”
But after that incident Delta had hardly been forthcoming, beyond the odd word of explanation for new injuries which Lakia had demanded. Lakia would not know of the rapes: that had left no mark that Lakia had thought to look for, thus she had not asked. Nor had Delta made any attempt to explain in depth the horrors or being whored out to the highest bidder. Not even Delta understood what had happened there. Lakia could easily pin-point three or four separate occasions where Delta had been found beaten to within an inch of her life.
When she heard Lakia directly address her, she looked up and focused, more on the signs than the words. She nodded gently, a lethargic movement, and offered the smallest of smiles. Her own fingers responded, as was natural for the pair of them to communicate in this way, their closest thing to a common language, signing back that she was, “not afraid now”.
The voices of the other two, however, while not combative, were hard and cold. Lakia and Delta were clearly unwanted. Again, as she had imagined on the Immortal’s Tongue, Delta believed that she was the cause of this unease. ‘This man really doesn’t like slaves’. Faith seemed gentle enough, but the slave instantly questioned Lakia’s decision to take her to Padraig. In Delta’s eyes, he had been at best dismissive and at worst disdainful of the slave’s presence with the team at the ruins. Now, little seemed to have changed, and even the woman was cold.
The woman, Faith, was still touching her, though now her hands had moved down to her wrist, and then on to collect a tub of cool cream, which she began to rub in circles along Delta’s arms and wrists. The woman was careful enough to avoid open sores, some self-inflicted, others not. She seemed to know what she was doing. Delta watched: her hands were gentle but her face, which did not look up, was not. The slave pulled her hands away, curling them inwards to her chest. “Lakia,” she called for the woman's attention, then signed, “Thry don't like slaves. They don't like me here. I want to go. Now.”
