A Grave of Chains - The Journals of Kowèn

Part VII: A Songbird's Lament

Everything muddled.

Interactions once so clear no longer conformed to what I came to expect. Defiance went unnoticed, even ignored. As soon as I forced the word master from my mouth, Dimos seemed pleased. It didn't matter that I immediately reverted to calling him sir. Nor did he bother smothering any of my retorts or complaints. 

The same night Dimos saved me from the guards' swords, he brought me further into the barracks. We passed room after room, furnished with a bed, nightstand, and a chest detailed and decorative for sure, but still scaled-down compared to the grandeur nearby. We entered a slightly larger bedroom. Lavish satin bedsheets spread across an enormous bed. A chandelier spread dozen of candles' orange light. Carpets of different shapes and colors strewed across the floor and muffled Dimos' heavy footfalls as he entered.

A short chain connecting my wrists to one of the bed legs clicked and kept me secure at the end of the bed. Unable to lie down, I did my best to relieve the tension on my flogged back, but nothing made the ache lessen. Dimos fell fast asleep, knowing I wouldn't disappear. I assume this was enough punishment for my actions. Finally, things would turn around.

I wouldn't have expected a gift, or rather, a blessing. The empty room Dimos had brought me the day before had turned into a workshop. A splendid, fantastic place for an artist like myself. Chisels, hammers, and other mason tools glistened in the day's light pouring in through the open doors.

I was a child again. The joy of sculpting and creating seared within me, making my heart skip a beat from something other than fear. My fingers caressed the jagged boulder that awaited my touch to mold it into perfection. A wide smile exposed my delight. This was the reason behind my enslavement. If this was why, I would survive this experience. All I had to do was create whatever they asked, and they would let me leave once they were pleased. There is one thing no one has managed to rub my confidence in, and it's my sculpting.

When stepping through the gates of an impressive mansion belonging to one of Redilla's elite, Dimos needed not remind me of my purpose. I greeted the lord and lady, letting Dimos speak on my behalf.  

Within the estate's gardens, a spectacular fountain splashed droplets of water on a perfectly arranged path. They presented me with a white marble slab while describing a tame and uninspired statue of a horse. I ran my hand across the stone, letting it speak of its potential. Dimos crossed his arms loosely, listening to my suggestion to the family.

"Instead of a horse, simply standing guard over the garden, why not display it prancing to envoke a sense of might?"

The couple gave approving nods, and Dimos... he looked impressed? His thin eyebrows pulled upward, and so did the corners of his lips. A sickening sensation of fulfillment accompanied his approval. I buried myself in work to escape. And escape was what I did.

The one place, the one thing distracting from my predicament, came from listening to the chisel slicing off pieces of rock. Each trust of the tools sent powerful judders up my arm in a familiar surge of energy. Living in the presence comes easy with sculpting. What matters is each individual decision when perfecting the stone.

The approach of my work was relentless. Focus remained on the stone and the masterpiece I would supply. Drinking and eating became unnecessary interruptions opportunities for my mind to drift and grieve my lost freedom. Not that Dimos minded my commitment. He escorted me back to his bedroom, where he chained me back up. Exhausted, I fell asleep and did the entire thing over again. 

Seeing me struggle, stretching my hands above my head Dimos stopped my work. He placed a hand on my shoulder, light as a feather, and spoke strange words. The bruises and cuts on my back sealed, and the infection heating my skin subsided. I thanked him and continued shaping the horse's head. The scars remained, but the hurt waned.