Just a Girl
She knew what he was doing-she had not lived among men for her life long without knowing that this was a thing some men did. None of the camp would do it to her-she had made herself something other than a woman. None saw her that way, and it made her glad to be left alone. Left alone, except for Methos.
She was only saddened that it was Methos doing the deed. Of course, he would take his turn at the sport of it. She would never stop those games-she never knew how. But that he would make use of this creature-just a girl-surprised her.
Men often surprised her, once. They usually didn't, anymore. She had often thought Methos was another situation, but he was, after all, a man.
She winced to think that the girl submitted to it so quietly, too. He covered her mouth with one hand, but she hadn't screamed. It was as if it were expected, accepted. It was as if she thought there was no other way. She barely moved under him, not even to struggle. Her eyes were another story, though. Her eyes looked in Anath-Sin's direction, and she almost thought she was looking at her. She thought that, but only briefly. The eyes then closed, and Anna knew the weeping would start. She didn't care to look on such things, so she went back inside the tent.
She knew he would not be long. It was her experience that such things only felt like they took forever, but really were over quite quickly. It was use, not pleasure. There was a time when she had not known the difference.
He adjusted his cloak around himself as he entered the tent, eyes not even glancing in her direction.
"You left her there, in the sand?" Anna asked. "Did you at least do right by her, Lord Seker?"
She could see the anger on his face, but she welcomed it. At times, she thought the anger was his weakness. Her ability to stay calm was her strength, when she remembered it. There was, after all, nothing he could do to her that would last, except maim her or kill her, and she knew he wouldn't do either. She knew he needed her.
"Did you leave her alive?" she went on, knowing the sound of her own voice was like a goad.
He went to her, putting his hand on her throat. "Enough!"
She let her head hang down, but smiled. If he wanted silence, he could have it. Silence could sometimes be worse. She knew his ways well enough. He released her. Touching his shoulder, she went to go past him.
"Where do you think you're going?"
She blinked. Was he fool enough not to realize? Perhaps he was.
"You did leave her alive, didn't you? Was she still moving?" He made a surprised expression, and then looked away. She would be disgusted by his rashness if she had not come to expect it. "Come now-you know full well why you chose her, don't you?" She then moved to get a better look at his face. "I can see you do."
"Go ahead, then, Anath-Sin. Finish the task," he answered.
She pulled the dagger from the strap on her thigh. "I would. If you are certain you wouldn't rather do it. I'm sure she won't last the night as it is. She was such a little thing. What would you guess? Twelve years old, Methos? Certainly, you were the first. I only saw what was happening in the middle of the act-did she struggle in the beginning? Oh, I doubt it, because she would have been too weak."
The look of horror he gave her was an interesting pleasure. He couldn't even work his mouth properly to answer her.
"You can smell it on them, can't you? I don't ride that often. I stay here, to oversee the slaves-the women. As I am a woman. And I see what goes on here. That one stopped eating days ago. She wanted to die and she was going to, sooner or later. Now, perhaps, if she has the strength, she'll do the deed. But I think it would be kinder to help her along."
His eyes narrowed to slits. "I don't care for the way you are talking to me."
"I don't care for the way I have to," she responded. She shot him a defiant look and half-hoped he would chase after her. He didn't. It was just as well.
*****
The child lay, motionless, and Anath-Sin had to touch her to know she was still alive. She had almost hoped that the small thing had simply broken there, in the dirt, and required only to be covered up. That would be far simpler than dealing with a living being. The child moved but did not face her. Perhaps she could not face anyone.
"There, you are still among the living, after all. Should I walk you back to be among the other women?" Anath-Sin asked, almost kindly, but not quite. She could imagine feeling sympathy, but did not feel it. It was too long ago. Putting herself in the girl's place was impossible.
The girl stared, but did not speak. Anath-Sin nodded. This was how it was for some-their voices were robbed because there weren't any words to protect them.
"Can you rise?" she asked. She wondered to herself that the child ever could. Her legs seemed no more around than Anath-Sin's own forearm. And now, they would be shaking from having done an unaccustomed thing. "Have you a wound? Speak."
At these words, the girl began to weep anew.
"Shh, child, the pain will pass. It is not a thing that lasts forever."
While the girl still wept, Anath-Sin contemplated the dagger. Was she truly interested in stopping the child's pain, or was there some other reason she thought this must be done? She was uncertain. She did not even know why the thought crossed her mind until after the girl was still. The girl still stared on even in death and Anath-Sin closed her eyes.
All that remained was to dispose of the carrion flesh lest it breed contagion.
*****
The girl had been fine-boned, and weighed nothing at all to Anath-Sin. Her eyes and hair had been dark. She would never have grown to be a tall woman. She would always have seemed like a small bird.
She considered simply burying the body, but could never accept that as a good way. Her own people had their caves, but there were no caves here. She knew of some that would eat the flesh, and others that would raise stones to hide the corpse, and others still who made great pits, and threw the bodies in altogether. She cared for none of these ways, and in the plain, she always imagined something would get to the body-like dogs. It seemed wrong that dogs should eat the dead. Better the dead were burned.
She knew there were none to mourn, but she stared at the form of the girl, taking note of every feature. She had seen many dead faces in her time. This was but one.
"Nothing like myself," she thought aloud. It was true. The child was dark where Anath-Sin was light, small where Anath-Sin was not. Weak, where she was not. Young. And mortal, altogether too mortal. Those last contrasts-there was the strange thing. It was as if Methos had chosen a girl who was everything Anath-Sin was not.
She sensed his approach, and wondered what brought him forth.
"I will get rid of her," he said, softly. "The act is mine to do."
"I'm glad you see that," she said, rising from where she had knelt to look on the child. "You do know it is best?"
"If she be burned. That is your way. And it would be cleaner. Better."
He spoke to her, but did not look at her. She wondered if he knew shame about this. Perhaps he did. He would do it again, even so. Just as he might have felt shame about killing this one, or lying about that, or doing some other thing. The simple truth was that there are a number of things one might do and feel shame, but shame passes. She knew Methos had learned this from her.
"She was very young," Anath-Sin commented. She was not certain why she said this. "She was not very strong." And she was about to return to the tent, but Methos grabbed her.
"Were you ever young? Weak?" His eyes were fierce, and she wondered what she had ever done to make him so suddenly angry with her. Surely, her age could not be helped. No more than it could be helped that she was past being physically hurt.
She looked on him calmly. Would any mortal know that six hundred is young? That one can survive for centuries and still be a child? Methos was still a child in some ways. A woman's body might be a plaything. Her mind would be a mystery. There was no way to express to him even the mere dozen-odd years of experience that dead child knew, let alone make him understand her own few thousand years.
"I was. I was young, once. But weak? I am still here," she said, shrugging off his touch. She walked a distance, and paused. She could remember. She could always, would always remember. Weak? No. That would have been too simple.
*****
"She fights like a little beast. Get me that rag, before she bites my hand again," the bald one had laughed. He didn't seem angry about her biting his hand, until he slapped her. The force of it made her bite her own tongue, and she could taste the blood and feel the tingle of the skin knitting itself together.
"There-a fine creature," the other commented. She did not get to see that one well. She knew only that his hands were large and filthy. He needed only one hand to hold her down. His voice sounded young. Perhaps he was the other's son. She could not stop struggling. She wouldn't hear them speak about her as if she was not there. But she could still hear them. Laughing. Talking about her as if she was an animal. As if she didn't understand what they were saying-or worse, as if they did want her to think that.
That she was an animal.
She wondered if they knew what she was.
The taste of the rag made her want to vomit. He pushed it in too far, and the spit in her mouth was like poison. She would be damned before she retched. She was frightened, but her fear made her angry. She knew what would come next. It was plain-like a sign in the sky. They would have her. All the same, when she saw the man push aside his clothing, and then when she felt him press himself against her, and when the other man let her go, to simply be covered, she was astonished.
It was an astonishing thing, that they could use her this way. She was no stranger to the act of lying with a man, but that was Tarmok. Or some other man of the village, who knew her, and who pleased her. She had done this as a ritual, and she had done this in love, once, but that didn't matter, now.
It was as if nothing mattered-not that she didn't care to, not that she struggled, not that it hurt, not that it was a sacrilege to do this to her. It was as if she was no one, just a body.
She hated, then. She hated them, and she hated herself that this could be done to her. She pushed against him with her hands, but he would not move from her. She worked the gag from her mouth and screamed, but then felt his hand pushing against her jaw.
"Scream in pleasure, little bitch. Enjoy it while you can." But the way he held her jaw made it impossible to move her head, and she dared not scream, then. The feel of his member burned while it was inside of her, and when he came, she felt as if she were bitten by the snake again-it was like venom inside her. Or worse, it was as if it were not his seed, but his urine he was putting there, polluting her.
When he had finished with her, he got up from her. Perhaps they had not expected that she would still be able to move. She rolled to her side, and the gag came from her mouth with a mixture of spit and blood. Her legs were strained from being pushed apart, but she moved them, and was rewarded by having her arm grabbed and then yanked by the younger one. He pulled her to her feet, the better, she guessed, to beat her. She saw his fist coming for her face and raised her other arm to shield herself from the blow. It still connected.
The bald one, the one who had used her, sat on his haunches as he laughed.
"Still lively. You're in luck."
"Wonderful luck," the other snarled. Then, she kicked him, in the place she knew would make him weak, and tried to make a break from him, but it seemed to do little. He grabbed at her, wincing, and dragged her down to the ground again.
"You will pay for that." And then she saw the knife.
She saw or felt nothing after that until she felt the presence-the strange tingle that was everywhere at once, and saw someone clearing away the dirt from her face. After they had killed her, they saw fit to cover her with dirt, a shallow grave. She could have risen from it herself, but had not dared to. It was a very shallow grave.
Thank the gods for small favors. Or else she might have lay there forever, trapped, afraid. Not wanting to go on living.
That was not the last time she was ever raped-although never while she was with Imhotep. Nor when she was with Methos, or any of the other men who protected her from time to time. But it did happen again, at other times. And every time she struggled. Most times, she died. Dying-there was the hard part. And living-that was hard, too.
*****
She had wine, and she had her silence. Methos looked at her, but knew she would have no use for him, and he felt tired. He lay down next to where she sat. When sleep began to overtake her, she lay beside him, with her back to him. Still awake, he touched her, gently, and she stiffened.
He knew it would only be a matter of time with her, though. The woman never stayed angry with him for very long.
He knew that about her-she always forgave, because he once forgave her. She did not even seem to know herself that she had used him this way in the beginning. But he remembered, and he remembered it when he touched that girl, and no-that girl was nothing like Anath-Sin.