I long ago lost count of all the faces I have worn over the cycles, a new one for each of my mistresses. A man usually, young and handsome more often than not, though there are exceptions. Once I wore the face of an infant for over forty glorious cycles, always kept close to my mistress's heart. When that heart stopped beating, I grew cold and feared I would spend eternity in the dark box with her.
I had been in dark boxes before, of course. Young mistresses cast me from my rightful place when they weary of the face I wear, and often it is many cycles before I feel the touch of eager fingers and find myself opened to the light of day. By the foundry, I will never understand why they banish me instead of simply changing my face, why my loyal service means so much less than the actions of the man whose face I wear.
This time, however, was different. My mistress had not exiled me from the warmth of her bosom, but rather the warmth itself had fled. I longed to cry out to the weeping mourners, ached for a voice with which to implore them-- save me that I may serve.
None heard, and resigned myself to the slow corrosion of a meaningless existence. The mourners left, and a man came to close the box, sealing my damnation. He stared at me with admiration, licking his lips and muttering to himself about credits and right and wrong. Had I a mouth, I would have laughed; how could anyone deny me the right to serve and say that he was doing "right"?
The thought of credits won out over his warped ideas of "right" and "wrong", thank the smith! He snapped the chain that bound me to my cold mistress and carried me to one who knew my value. She gave him forty credits and waited until he had left before she hung me on a new chain, next to a tag that proclaimed my worth at one hundred credits more. Perhaps it was simply a trick of the light, but I believe I sparkled with pride.
For the sake of candor, I will confide that I rather enjoyed the monen I spent on display, being coveted and praised for my own beauty and not seen as a hollow vessel defined solely by the face I carry. Untarnished in those days, I shone like new. If you had seen me then, you could hardly blame me for my vanity.
Then came the thief, a thin, grey-skinned girl who wrinkled her nose at the face I wore and worse, asserted that my value was only ten credits! Ten! I was not so much offended for myself as I was horrified at such a blaspheme against my maker.
Imagine my distress when the thief continued to caress me after such an insult. She did not value me enough to pay my proper price and yet the vile creature coveted me all the same. To what purpose? I wondered. How could a heart filled only with greed and larceny need me? Whose face could she possibly want to hold close?
The thief's nimble fingers unlatched my chain, and I found myself falling down her sleeve. Once away from the eyes of my rightful owner, she clasped my chain around her neck. I hung, helpless in the dark crevice of her bosom, ashamed to be adorning such a creature.
I find it curious how it is that I could ride so close to the thief's heart and not see the hurt she carried there or the sincerity of her intentions for me. Thinking back now, my perception filtered through her next actions, I can almost say I remember her fondly. I will always be grateful for what she did next, though it will never quite match the humiliation of being valued at ten credits!
She removed me from her neck and nestled me in her palm, bathing me in corrosive, tarnishing sweat. So close to her wrist, I could feel her pulse accelerate as she approached the dark haired woman who would become my final mistress.
"Hey, Aeryn!" the theif called. "Sorry for taking your prowler."
"I don't need your apologies, Chiana. I just need you to stay away from my prowler from now on."
Dark blue eyes flashed cold fire. I have learned much from having so many mistresses, and I know that a woman who needs no apology offers no forgiveness. I felt a pang of sympathy for the thief even as I longed for a polishing cloth to remove her sweat.
"Yeah, well, I got this for you. To make it up to you." The thief opened her hand, and even in the woeful artificial light, I shone.
"Keep it. I have no use for it." Her eyes softened, and she reached out to take the thief's hand in both of hers, closing it around me.
I could hear forgiveness in her voice and knew that despite her words, she saw my beauty. I had been a gift before, of course, used to mark a name day or coming of age, presented as a declaration of love, or used to commemorate the birth of a child. I had never before been the instrument of forgiveness, and so touched was I by the sentiment that I forgot the burning salts of the thief's sweat.
"Please. I want you to have it! Just take it, ok?" The thief's hands wrestled with those of the dark-haired woman and when they disengaged from each other, I found myself scrutinized by bewildered blue eyes.
"Fine. I'll take it. And... thank you. No one has ever given me something like this before."
The thief's astonishment mirrored mine. "No one? Not even your family-- Oh. Right. Sorry. Then you've probably never seen one of these before. See, you open it, and you put a picture inside. A picture of someone you love."
"Hm." Smiling, she snapped my chain around her neck.
I slid into my rightful place above her heart, knowing that I had found my true mistress, the one for whom the Smith intended me when I was but an ingot. I vowed in that moment to serve always as a reminder of her own capacity to love and be loved. Until finding her, I had been a mere ornament, admired and perhaps even treasured, but never truly needed. There, upon the heart of Aeryn Sun, I became something more.