In this second chapter of Forsaken by Shadows, we visit Kitty three years into her enslavement and meet a new character—will he be an ally or an enemy?
Disclaimer: This story is a dark tale of surviving trauma and abuse. If these are subjects you are sensitive to, this story may not be for you.
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~2. No Place for Tears~
Kitty and Rismyn, Age 11
Every morning that Kitty awoke alive, she chose to be grateful, as her mother and father had taught her. Though there was little to be thankful for, she clung to the mantra anyway. It was all she had left of the world above.
That, and her name, which she refused to surrender.
Yet every day she awoke it became harder and harder to choose gratitude. Three long years had passed since she had been revived by clerics in the manor of House Tear, though manor wasn’t the word Kitty would have assigned to the place. The compound spanned ten stalagmites and thirteen stalactites. The hollowed stonework was carved intricately and elegantly, connected by a series of bridges and walkways. It was its own private fortress, staffed by slaves and defended by elite soldiers.
Though Kitty had never left the compound, she’d caught glimpses of the outside world as she crossed from one stalactite tower to the next. From what she could see, all of Menzoberranzan was arrayed like House Tear. Some compounds were more beautiful. Some were larger, some smaller. Some glowed with purple and blue faerie fire. Others remained in pitch blackness. The whole city imitated the people who built it—or rather, the people who owned the slaves who built it—beautiful exteriors, but hollow, cold, and hardened to the core.
When she had first woken from her unconscious journey three years before, it was in pure darkness. Then her vision swam with vibrant hues.
That was when she learned she had the ability to see in the infrared spectrum. Her eyes adjusted naturally and readily to the complete blackness of Menzoberranzan, and the first sight she saw made her want to scream. Though his saturation was entirely warm reds and oranges, the silhouette was undeniably Prince Toloruel.
He would be forever etched into her memory.
Kitty’s slavery began at once. She was given over to Tika, a monstrous female ogre who commanded the household slaves. All of Kitty’s fellow slaves were monsters. Creatures that were always the villains in the stories told around campfires.
And she was considered the least of them.
She’d been horrified when she realized she was going to exist alongside goblins, gnolls, and kobolds. After three years, however, she preferred their odious company to that of the more beautiful drow. There was no insult, no abuse, no cruel prank the monsters could concoct that was worse than the torments Toloruel had planned for her.
The prince promised her a life of suffering, and though she tried to remain positive, he wasn’t wrong. Kitty was often called away from her duties to please his violent whims. She learned quickly that the vicious Toloruel, oldest son and Elderboy of House Tear, was actually not all that powerful in his own home. Drow males were considered second-class citizens, and he was often the subject of abuse by his own sisters and mother.
Mother.
Kitty shuddered when she thought of that woman. The one they called Matron. It was no wonder Toloruel was so cruel. She learned early to avoid the gaze of the dark mistress of House Tear, who only looked Kitty’s way when she was considering giving her heart to the Spider Queen.
Her inevitable sacrifice was the only thing that kept Kitty alive, for Matron Xatel hadn’t been pleased when her son returned from the surface with a tagalong. That is until she realized Kitty’s lifeblood could be bartered for favor with Lolth, the evil deity whom the drow worshiped. Then, suddenly, Kitty was a treasure. She was to be protected until her death could be offered at the right moment for maximum benefit.
It didn’t save Toloruel from a brutal whipping, though. A whipping he could do nothing about but accept.
Until Kitty came along.
Her misery would have been enough if it were just Toloruel. But of course, it wasn’t. Though he was her chief lord and master, he was still subject to his sisters. Most of whom were younger than him. Four of the five were high priestesses to Lolth. The youngest, only a toddler when Kitty was taken, was being groomed to follow in her horrid sisters’ footsteps.
Yet though the siblings were prone to squabble amongst themselves, they all shared one trait in common. They hated faeries, like Kitty, above all else, and found their brother’s pet to be a perfect test subject for their magical tortures.
All for the glory of Lolth, of course.
More than once, Kitty thought she was going to die. More than once, she hoped she would. Yet every time, she awoke, with a cleric standing by or a healing potion drenched in her hair. Then she would be sent off to her duties. Punishment awaited those who did not complete their assigned work, regardless of how long the drow family pulled her away for their games.
This morning, however, started off with one positive note. It was the first day of Toloruel’s tour into the Wilds on patrol. As one of Menzoberranzan’s finest soldiers, he was obligated to serve in the city’s militia as well as in his mother’s own private wars. This meant that when Kitty awoke on a rug in her corner of his chambers, he was already gone.
And would be gone for a blissful two tendays.
She winced slightly when the enchanted shackle around her ankle released, signaling the start of a new day. But there was no time to tarry. Tika would be expecting her, and if she were late, the ogress would be sure to let her master know.
She glanced down at the dress she’d worn to sleep and considered it suitable for another day’s work. Brushing her hair back from her face, she headed for the door and winced again. Her ribs were bruised from the beating she had received the night before.
Her hand strayed into the pocket of her apron, feeling the little tin of healing balm that resided there. It had been a “gift” from her master, but not out of kindness. He gave nothing out of kindness, but rather pragmatism. The faster she healed, the sooner he could hurt her again. He’d given her a blanket recently, as well, for the sheer pleasure of taking it away from her if she displeased him.
Kitty fingered the tin but then decided against using the balm. She didn’t think the bruising was bad enough that she couldn’t bear it, and there was no telling if she might get more balm if she used it all up. No, she would save the salve for more painful batterings.
It was a long walk from Toloruel’s room to the slave wards where she would be assigned her daily work. As a son of Matron Xatel, the prince lived in one of the hanging stalactites, which were very difficult to access without the gift of levitation magic. A gift inherent to dark elven nobles. Supposedly the lack of stairs protected the family if another noble house came to obliterate them.
As far as Kitty was concerned, it was just another form of torment for her, as she traveled out of her way to find the hidden passage downwards.
She reached Tika’s kitchen just as the horde of unassigned workers were gathering, slipping in behind two goblin women who hadn’t bothered to change their smocks in far too long. The usually white fabric was a sickly shade of yellow that made her cringe and stare at her feet.
One by one, the ogress hollered out names and duties. Spider feeding, kitchen work, laundry. Some tasks were more unpleasant than others, and there was no telling which Kitty would be assigned. She tried not to let her shoulders sag too badly when the easier assignments were given to others, reminding herself that at least Toloruel was gone for two tendays.
And then, it was her turn.
“Kitty!” Tika snapped. “Chapel.”
And that was all she said. Kitty blinked, almost unsure she had heard correctly. Then she hurried away before the ogress could change her mind.
It was better than she could have hoped. The house chapel to Lolth was a relatively easy day of work. It only required the polishing of various idols and altars. Since there had been no sacrifices recently, there would be no blood to scrub.
Of course, the chapel was enormous and it would take all day, but that only meant she wouldn’t be assigned to a worse task.
After a quick breakfast of tasteless porridge and stale sporebread, Kitty collected a bucket and cloth and made her way through the cramped slave corridors. The morning’s good fortune left her almost optimistic, though she knew better than to let herself get carried away. There was always a darker shadow lurking. Even in the pitchest of black rooms.
Still, it was hard not to get at least a little excited. So long as she was vigilant, she might make it through the day with minimal heartache.
To her increasing delight, her good fortune continued. Though the courtyard had been full of drow soldiers, they had been too engrossed in their drills to pay her any mind. She successfully scurried to the side door of the chapel and stepped inside without a single negative incident.
Her mood had risen so high that as she reached the first of the idols, she began to hum. Of course, she took care to hum softly. Her songs were considered sacrilege, and singing was forbidden. But even after all these years, she couldn’t keep the music in her heart back. It was the only thing that gave her light in the darkness.
Fortunately, she was not often caught. While drow ears were sensitive, goblins’ were not. She could get away with much so long as there were no drow around.
The day wore on, and Kitty worked her way around the statues, inventing stories about the icons that were brighter and happier than the ones she knew the drow told. It was quiet in the chapel, and she hadn’t seen another soul since her work had begun.
Her favorite sort of day.
Until a sudden sound jarred her back to the grim reality in which she lived.
She had just come around the side of a six-foot-tall obsidian spider when she heard the soft rustle that told her she was no longer alone. Kitty froze, her lips still open as the note died in her throat. The rustling had come from a dark alcove not ten spans away. She dared not breathe in case one of the drow priestesses were hiding there. But just as she took a step backward, another sound drifted over the still air, one that made her freeze for a different reason.
It was a sob.
Kitty had never heard anyone sob in Menzoberranzan except herself. She stood still, unsure of what to do. It wasn’t her business, and it didn’t pay to stick your nose where it didn’t belong in House Tear.
But curiosity won out. Carefully, she set down her rag and crept around the other side of the spider statue. What she saw made her take a sharp breath and drop back behind its stone embrace.
Unfortunately, the drow in the alcove heard.
“Who’s there!?” Came the sharp voice of Prince Rismyn.
Kitty wrapped her arms around her knees and tried to control her trembling. Of all the people she could have stumbled upon, it had to be one of the family!
“I said, who’s there?” The young drow snapped again.
Kitty took several deep breaths. She knew she had to reveal herself to the prince, but she was frightened. She didn’t know Rismyn at all. She hadn’t even known Toloruel had a younger brother for the first two years after she had come to House Tear. It wasn’t until he turned ten, the same year she turned ten, that he was introduced to the family as page prince. Apparently, before then, he had been raised by one of Matron Xatel’s daughters away from the rest of the family.
That had been a year ago. Kitty had thought little of it; he was just another drow noble to torment her. But oddly enough, Rismyn wasn’t treated much better than she. Like her, he served the family, though his tasks were rarely as awful as hers, and he took orders from his siblings directly. Yet also like her, he received frequent lashings from the snake-headed whips carried by the clerics of the family. And, like her, he was forbidden from raising his eyes from the ground.
Kitty still didn’t know what to make of it. A prince treated like a slave. Not even Toloruel was treated so poorly. What had Rismyn done to deserve such a fate? She had never known anything but love from her parents even when they disciplined her. She couldn’t fathom what the boy must feel when his own mother cracked a whip across his back.
Yet however much he might be treated like her, he was not what she was. He was a son of Matron Xatel, the secondboy of the family.
And Kitty had just found him crying.
She considered trying to scurry away, but even as the thought crossed her mind the choice was made for her. Her fear had cost her precious time. Rismyn was suddenly before her, glaring down at her through tear-streaked eyes. The white-hot trails showed plainly on his dark skin in her infravision.
Kitty stared at him for a full three seconds before she remembered she was forbidden to look any of the family in the face. She flung her gaze to the floor, but not before she noticed that the page prince looked just as shocked to see her as she was to see him.
“You. You’re my brother’s pet, aren’t you?”
Kitty nodded fervently, fear keeping her tongue glued to the roof of her mouth. She longed to look up into his face and see if she could read his expression, but she didn’t dare. Though he was the same age as her, he could still hurt her and no one would bat an eye. All she could do was stare at his soft boots, designed to make no sound in a world where a whisper could get you killed.
“What are you doing here?” The prince demanded.
Kitty took a deep breath and forced her lips apart. “Cleaning,” she squeaked, gesturing to the pale of soapy water. “P-polishing the idols.”
There was a whisper of fabric, and suddenly she could see more of the prince as he squatted before her.
“Look at me.”
Kitty hesitated. It would be just like a drow to command her to look at him, then smack her for breaking the rules. But to disobey a direct order…
Steeling her nerves, Kitty lifted her eyes. She didn’t want to be asked twice.
Rismyn stared at her with a blank expression, the trails of his tears having long cooled. It took her a moment to realize he had stepped into the dim violet light of the harmless faerie fire which limed the statue she had been polishing. She let her eyes relax into the normal spectrum and got her first close look at Rismyn Tear.
He was, as all drow were, beautiful, with angular features and thick, silky white hair tied back in a horsetail. His eyes, though still red, were not glowing with the light of darkvision, but regarded her as she regarded him in the normal spectrum. There was a storm brewing in those eyes. Whether it was for her or the trial he had been weathering before she found him, she could not guess.
He stared at her silently for a long moment, making her nervous. He probably would have kept on staring, too, except that his legs suddenly wobbled and he lost his balance, crashing backward with a yelp. It was only then that Kitty remembered what she had seen when she first discovered him in the alcove. His back had been crisscrossed with red-hot lashes.
“You are hurt, master,” she said, darting forward instinctively to help him up.
Rismyn snarled and kicked her away. “Don’t touch me, faerie!”
Kitty fell back obediently, her eyes returning to the floor. “I’m sorry,” she breathed, expecting to feel his fist on the back of her head any moment.
Instead, Rismyn pushed himself up with a groan. “You didn’t see me here,” he said. “You saw nothing at all. Do you understand me, faerie? Nothing.”
He sounded like a kitten trying to be feral. Kitty only nodded, remembering that even kittens had claws.
But as the page prince turned away from her, she found her eyes lifting to watch him go. His tunic was torn and blood dripped where the snake-heads had bitten into his flesh. She shuddered, feeling a distant echo of that familiar pain as she looked at him.
Before she could think better of it, she was on her feet. “Wait, master!”
Rismyn turned back to her with a glower that should have stopped her in her tracks. Instead, she hurried towards him, lowering her eyes as she reached into the pocket of her apron. “This will help with the pain,” she said, holding out the small tin of healing balm.
Rismyn snatched it from her hand. “What is this?” he growled, pulling the lid off and sniffing it. Kitty dared to peek up at him and saw his eyes widened in surprise. “Where did you get this, faerie?” he demanded, with so much fury that it made Kitty take a step back. “Did you steal it?”
“What? No, no, my lord!” she stammered. “It was a gift from my master.”
“A gift?” he sneered. “From Toloruel? I doubt that.”
“It’s true.”
“Do you think I am stupid?” Rismyn spat. “Toloruel doesn’t give gifts, especially to worthless faeries like you.”
Anger and indignation surged inside of her. She’d been accused of worse things. If nothing else, as an excuse for Toloruel’s sport. But though she had become numb to many things over the last three years of her enslavement, she could never become numb to false accusations.
Yet she knew better than to try and persuade a drow once they had made up their mind. “The balm will ease the pain,” she said again, trying to keep her tone subservient.
“What makes you think I’m in pain?”
There was something dangerous in his tone.
Kitty’s eyes glanced involuntarily to his shoulder, where she could see the very top of his ripped flesh. She knew she should drop the subject, that the wound to the young prince’s pride was far more volatile than the wounds to his back, but she couldn’t. Her parents had raised her to be kind to those in need, to ease suffering where she could. Rismyn was suffering, whether he wanted to admit it or not. “If my lord would like, I can apply the balm for you. It will ease the pain.”
The drow prince recoiled as if she had struck at him. “I am not in any pain,” he snarled. “Go, be gone from here. Don’t let me see you again, faerie!”
Kitty staggered back at his words, looking to the half-polished statue and back to the prince. She would be punished later if she did not complete her task, but she would be punished now if she disobeyed his orders. She stood frozen in indecision, until another harsh, “Go!” from Rismyn sent her scurrying back into the chapel.
It was only after she had gone she realized she had left her balm behind.
—
Prince Rismyn watched the faerie flee into the darkness, trembling with rage and humiliation. He was upset enough with himself for giving into tears after his eldest sister had lashed him. Did he have to be seen, too? By the faerie of all creatures? He was going to become a drow warrior one day; there was no place for tears in House Tear.
His gaze fell down--as it was supposed to remain down--and he saw the tin still in his hands. He frowned and intended to toss it away, then changed his mind and put it in his pocket. He looked after the girl again, to her faint red-glowing image before it disappeared out of view.
His whole life he had been told that it was the faeries who were responsible for all his pain. It was they who betrayed the drow, they who drove them into the Underdark. Every misery that had been visited upon him in his short life could be blamed on the faeries. And though he had known Toloruel owned one, he had never truly seen her before, forbidden as he was to look up from the ground. He’d stolen the odd glance or two from a distance, but never before had he seen her in the light of the normal spectrum.
She was not what he expected. He had always imagined the faeries to be some sort of aberration, some fanged demonic being.
But the girl was beautiful! Exotic, even, with her crystal white skin and chestnut curls. Her eyes had sparkled the same shade of lavender as the faerie fire around the statues, but somehow more alive, more vibrant. It took his breath away, which only further added to his humiliation.
She was a faerie, for Lolth’s sake!
Perhaps, he reasoned, it wasn’t his fault. He had heard of creatures who had the power to enchant their enemies. Sirens, and the like. Perhaps the faeries possessed a similar ability. A good thing he didn’t let her touch him. He’d have been doomed, for sure.
Rismyn turned away to go back to his own duties, wincing as he felt the sting in his back. He did ache terribly from the beating, and he was so sick of being beaten. But that was his life; he knew of no other existence. And it was all the faeries’ fault.
As he walked, he pulled the tin of balm from his pocket and examined it closer. It smelled like the healing balms he had encountered before. But why had she given it to him? It was downright foolish--she had to have known that he would confiscate her stolen item. The action made little sense to him. What had she hoped to gain? What advantage had she been plotting?
Most disturbingly, if the faeries were responsible for all his pain, why had one just tried to ease it?
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