The Tarn Raid
There was a tarn raid on the gardens last night. The beating wings and
shrieks of the birds were loud in the air as the two warriors snared unprotected
girls. He pulled me to shelter beneath a tree, his fingers circled through my
collar. I held the back of his trousers in my fingertips like a security
blanket, needing the feel of it in my hand and hoping he did not notice the
touch.
We returned home as soon as the tarns were out of sight. The incident brought to
mind an incident long ago when Sardarians raided the gardens taking nearly every
girl there, while others ran chaotically, screaming. I ran from the place. We
spoke of this last night and the dangers to a girl of being taken that way. I
thought at first that should I -- a piece of property like his sandals or the
silver fruit bowl - be taken that no one would come for me.
He rebuked me ... quietly, but still a rebuke that I did not seem to recall the
efforts made when the slave joy foolishly ventured into Gorean countryside alone
and was penned by a woman bent on vengeance.
I remember clearly. The hopelessness of being told no one cared; that I had been
replaced; that no one was coming. And then the day, the penned, painfully thin
slave with matted hair and torn clothing looked up and saw eyes the color of a
storm cloud and in disbelief she reached through the bars of the pen, her
fingers stretching for him.
He came for me. He took me home. I clung to him. And in that moment did not want
to let go. I have never said this aloud to anyone ... never even put it in
writing. I could not admit it.
He quietly said that in that moment my fate was sealed.
In the dark coolness last night in the greatroom, all this being brought to my
mind, I could only kneel before him, my head bowed and arms lifted to him, my
wrists crossed.
Who is bound? joy is bound.
Who binds you? You do, Master. You bind the slave joy.