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“When I was born, they raised me, and not long after, they put me to work,” she says.
There’s that word again. ‘Work.’
“So in exchange for gold, you provide services for the dark elves?”
My mind reels, wondering what she could possibly be doing on the island as ‘work.’
“No,” she says. “In exchange for my life, I work, and they feed me what I need to survive.”
“Slavery.”
She nods.
I’m not sure where I heard that word. Somehow, it sends chills down my spine.
“You are a slave?”
“I am.”
I can’t help but scowl at her in return, partially out of disbelief.
While I would gladly relinquish somebody of their life on a whim, if I were hungry or wrathful enough, it’s another thing to bind them entirely to my will with no choice in the matter. My freedom to roam these seas is essential to me.
“You are strong,” I say in response.
Something about her story endears me to her. I do not remember parents, or origins. Such meager concepts don’t interest me. But I can tell that hers means something to her.
Having these imposter dark elves, who do not know strength or shame, rob her of her mother, then force her to grow up in servitude… I am amazed she has survived that. I cannot imagine being asked to do anything by a dark elf and not simply ripping their throat from their neck or devouring their brain.
We are both creatures of the sea.
We are both survivors of the land.
Thankfully, it’s been six hours since I claimed her for myself. The dark elves have no more claim to her.
“You don’t belong to the dark elves anymore,” I say, producing what I think a human sees as a smile.
She casts a curious glance at me in response.
“And why is that?”
“BecauseIown you now,” I say proudly.
I expect to see relief, or gratitude, on her face. These are all sentiments I can understand and perceive.
But what I see instead is the look I see on my prey, moments before I devour them.
Her eyes are contorted in terror now. Her posture has become stiff and defensive as she backs into the wall she was admiring earlier, tracing over its texture and details.
Normally, I would revel in this kind of look. It excites me. In any instant when I see it on my prey, I know that they have surrendered to me and that their body is mine to devour.
But I realize in horror that I don’t want to devour her. Or at the very least, I would be sad to extinguish the life from her. It would mean no more conversations like these. She informs me about the world above the sea.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
She attempts to feign ignorance, wanting me to believe I can’t sense the chemicals emitting from her brain. “Looking at you like what?” she asks.
But I can see her muscles tensing up. I can see her approaching a crouching position. Her every thought is screaming at her to run, but as she surely realizes, there is no escape for her.
