Her slender hand trembled above her head. Rope imprinted itself unto her wrists. Red fluid dripped over the soot of her filthy hair. Pools of tears quench the thirsty earth below. The moonlight shining bright red in resonance with her pain. Her frail bones chill as the wind caressed her pale skin. Her heart, shattered pieces lost to the people who forsook her. Her skin, hardened by intensive labor and abuse. She prostrated on the grass. Gritting her teeth. Her hands holding her head. Waiting for the next blow of leather to make contact with her back. Her eyes closed allowing her to be engulfed in darkness. Waiting. Anticipating. Expecting the sound of the whip breaking the air.
Tears flowed instinctively. Slobber accompanied through her teeth as she braced for the impact of the dried animal flesh unto hers.
It is night. And her work was far from over. So she was punished.
Blood sprayed across clothing. Waiting to mix with old stains. Indistinguishable from the mud and filth that enveloped the cloth that covered her body. Her very being trembling to the pain.
The night continued as a scarlet hue. With the girl waiting. Enduring. Waiting.
The moon rose high in the night as if to lift a curse. The red hue that covered the plantation was now a layer of red lusters as the moonlight reflected upon the white of the cotton. The girl worked.
She filled a basket and carried it across the field. The tears and blood long dried, new wounds began to open on the soles of her feet. Overworked day and night her calluses could not protect her bare feet.
Her thirst was more important than the pain under her feet. A full basket could be traded for a pale of water. But she had to hurry.
She had to make it back. For if the moon reached the center of the sky the quartermaster would decide to sleep then.
She hurried. Her bruised lips trembling at the touch of the wind. The humid air hydrating the pores on her tongue.
"You're late again creep!" A hoarse voice came from the cottage as a muscular figure came out of the cottage signaling the girl to hurry.
The girl did not respond or even flinch as her eyes reflected a glaze of ice. She never spoke. She didn't have to as no one would listen. No one who cared to listen.
Her feet leaving the earth unto the wood, she now ambled carefully to avoid an unwanted splinter into her exposed sole.
"Get your ass inside girl." The Quartermaster was aggressively impatient as he used his massive arms to throw the girl inside. "This is your last batch right? Hurry and pull your shit together. You will only get half a pale tonight"
She quickly got off the floor and scurried to pick up the spilled cotton of the floor. She placed the basket with the others as they where to be processed first thing tomorrow.
She watched as the Quartermaster grabbed a small bucket from a wooden table. He sprayed with floor with the contents inside. He handed whatever remained to her.
"Your feed is already in the stable. Hurry, and you better be awake before the rooster tomorrow you filth.
She nodded and hurried away from the cottage carrying the half-empty bucket with her. Her expression remained stationary as if the muscles on her face no longer existed. They didn't need to exist. There was not enough nutrition for her body to needlessly waist. Her master only provided the serfs with enough food to work and nothing more. The slaves like her got even less. She barely had enough energy to finish her tasks. Day after day her muscles never developed. They simply couldn't. She received her meals in a horse feed through. She ate whatever the horses left if they left anything at all.
And tonight it was empty. A sight she already grew accustomed to.
Scraps and spills were scattered below as the horses were messy eaters. She had prepared beforehand for she collected crickets and ants during her labor into a small sewn pocket on the excess of the cloth she wore. It was the best place to avoid rips from the beatings she would take.
The girl gathered the scraps of the horse feed and mixed them in a cloth she used as a makeshift container.
Unable to identify what she put in her mouth, for nothing tasted pleasurable regardless. She simply ate to live. For if she collapsed of hunger they would force food down her throat with a metal tool that plied her mouth open.
She removed the cricket's head and sucked on the inside of the carcass.
She sighed. She wasn't waiting for the pain to be over.
She was waiting for what was about to come next.
She went to the hay where she slept and pulled a piece of parchment she had hidden for a while.
The moon was high in the night. A red stream overshadowing the countryside.
She stared at the gorgeous sight above. Her eyes reflecting the light. Gleaming red. A barely visible smirk pestered the unmoving expression on her face. The adrenaline behind her stare increased the tension around her. Her heartbeat was filled with emotion for the first time in a long time. It was a deep velvet hue in her heart. Built from years of pain, blood, discrimination, and abuse. Hate.
She didn't care about being free. No. She no longer had hope. Countless attempts of suicide taught her she was meant to suffer here for they were all stopped by the master and his serfs. She once tried to starve herself, only to be force-fed back to working condition. Her throat impaired by the metal device it became difficult to even drink water for months. She consumed tainted berries once, simply to suffer a painful beating and torture for not being able to work. The priests who served under her master would heal her with medicine, for she was more valuable alive than dead. She was simply a tool in this plantation. Sold by her father to pay a debt to this master. So much a tool that her genitals where desecrated as she was betrayed by her only friend. A friend who accused her as a homosexual to the church and punishment ensued. Her master allowed this to happen to his property as it was an easy way to avoid her from being pregnant in the future. Other slaves avoided her. She was called a creep. An unholy disgrace. She was alone.
But now she could be free.
She could finally satisfy the hate that grew in her heart. The hate that created a thirst for death. The death of all those who mocked her. Who betrayed her. Who abused her.
Because in her hands she held a parchment. Within it, a ritual was written.
A ritual that when the moon was red as the blood she would use a demon would be summoned. A demon who would do her bidding at the cost of her soul. Who would kill those who hurt her. Who would kill her and finally let her rest from the pain of this world.
She peeled the scabs that formed on the bottom of her foot. Removing the dried blood and grime, she was able to let fresh blood pool. She felt faint as the night continued for she had lost too much of her life fluid already. Regardless she must continue for it would all end soon.
She drew a sigil as instructed.
She marked the wood of the stable with what little blood she could muster.
When she finished she began to recite the words in front of her.
ad ligandum eos,
The language unknown to her. Regardless she repeated with a whisper:
ad ligandum eos,
Her voice weak and soft she could barely muster the strength to produce sound.
She had no hope, to begin with, but she still felt a bit of betrayal.
Betrayal of the world, and of the god who commanded it.
Why was she born if she was to suffer?
The blood on the wall erupted unto her face.
Her shock and confusion reanimated her heartrate. She quickly wiped the blood in her eyes with her hands.
In front of her was not a demon.
But a man.
Dressed in strange clothing, he looked like a noble. His face full of color, yet pale with a blush of health. His face showed a masculine jaw, decorated by a gentle expression in his eyes and lush eyelashes. His lips red and profound contrasting the deep black hair that shone elegantly under the night. Not a spot of dirt, which no one could escape no matter how rich. No, this man was spotless and perfect. The garments that constituted as pants were aesthetically proportioned and hued a perfect radiance of black unknown from the textiles she had ever seen. The clothes on his torso where those of the servants of nobility, fashioned with buttons, but this was different. The color was darker with a collar decorating his masculine thick neck. His eyes were intense and painful. He had a strict glare of anger behind them. He spoke, and a gentle soothing voice followed.
"Greetings girl, my name is Sun."