The first rays of the morning beamed through the open window. It was the wake up call for the one who always slept with his face turned toward that window. He blinked and shifted his body away from the sun. Why did summer always have to come so fast and last so long? During the darker days of winter, he could sleep much longer. The family never awoke before sunrise.
He sat up, stretching his body and ignoring the ache in his ribs. Before he let himself do anything, before he thought one more thought, he repeated the words he spoke to himself every morning: "My name is Muarim, I am a tiger Laguz, and I will be free someday."
They were the words his father spoke to him when he was a cub. "Your name is Muarim. The humans will deny you a name, but always remember, Muarim. Remember your name." While young Muarim was still in his father's care, his father would repeat his name over and over. After his father died, Muarim repeated his name every morning. It was something the humans could never take away from him. They would never use his name, but he at least knew he had one.
"You are a tiger, Muarim." His father repeated that often too, when little Muarim was still learning how to pounce. "I'm a tiger, your mother was a tiger, and you are a tiger." Muarim had to take his father at his word – he never knew his mother, as the birth had been difficult and the master had decided she wasn't useful to him anymore and got rid of her.
"You are a Laguz." His father emphasized that word. "The humans will treat their dogs better than they will treat you, and they will try to remove all sense of worth from you. But you are not a sub-human, Muarim. You are a Laguz."
Muarim repeated this every morning to himself as well. He wished he still believed it entirely.
The last part of Muarim's morning mantra came from the prayer his father prayed over him one day when he was young, a prayer that his grandfather and great-grandfather and great-great-grandfather prayed over their sons as well: "May you be the first in our family to be free."
Nowadays Muarim struggled to still find meaning in his own words. If he had to be honest with himself, "I will be free" was a dream that he didn't think would ever be achieved.
Standing up, Muarim took one step forward and immediately felt his foot sink into something warm and squishy. He knew exactly what it was without even looking. "Damn it," he growled, making his way to a nearby bucket of water and washing the horse feces off his foot. When his foot was clean, he glanced up at the long face of the Clydesdale blinking at him.
"I wish you wouldn't pass your bowels right where I'm sleeping," Muarim mumbled to it. The Clydesdale merely snorted at him. Technically it was the horse's stable so it had every right to poop where it pleased while Muarim just had to deal with it. His Master had designated the hay in the stall as his bed as a reward for being a good slave at their dinner party last week. Muarim supposed it was a step up from the hard cobblestone floor of their dungeon, but at least the dungeon had no manure in it.
Wiping his foot dry on the grass outside, Muarim entered the manor through a small wooden door in the garden, being as quiet as possible. Despite having the well-built frame of a tiger, he'd perfected the art of tiptoeing and gliding in and out of rooms without making any noise. He heard a voice barking quite some distance away. He wasn't concerned. It belonged to one of the other family members, and they were not responsible for him. This particular manor was enormous, belonging to the largest and wealthiest family in Begnion. Each immediate family within the whole family unit kept their own Laguz slave. The slaves weren't allowed to even look at each other.
Muarim knew his owners, though. They would only just now be getting up. Noiselessly he entered their kitchen and gathered the assorted loaves of bread together. Finding the bread knife, Muarim began to cut some slices out of each loaf, placing them in a visually-pleasing manner into a basket. He counted each slice, then cut one more slice out of a particularly grainy bread: the basket had an odd number of bread slices in it and Master hated odd numbers.
Finally, Muarim sawed off two more slices from the softest bread and meticulously carved them into the shape of a horse. Young Mistress was obsessed with horses and demanded all her bread be cut to look like them. Muarim studied each piece closely, making sure they were exactly the way Young Mistress liked them. Gingerly he placed them on a separate plate. He then took that and several more plates to the smaller dining room. Arranging the plates and the bread basket perfectly, he went back to the kitchen to brew some tea and serve the ale.
Muarim could hear his owners stirring and getting ready to come down for breakfast. He poured the last of the ale into two large goblets. He would need to brew some more later today. The tea was coming along very slowly today, much to Muarim's annoyance. When it finally finished, he poured some into a smaller, daintier cup, then brought all three cups to the small dining room table. As he placed them, his three owners walked in.
Master was impeccably dressed as always, his clothes tailored perfectly to fit his tall, slim frame. Master was a mercenary by trade, a swordmaster specifically. He often told tales of his jobs to his wife, a thin woman who never, ever smiled unless she was trying to impress someone else. Mistress liked to keep to herself during the day, so Muarim didn't have many encounters with her.
Plopping into her chair and closely examining her horse-shaped bread slices, Young Mistress wore a frilly pink and purple dress that Muarim was sure cost a fortune for Master to buy. She had plenty of other dresses, closets and closets of them, and the eight-year-old would probably be satisfied with less than half of them, but Mistress always demanded her little girl look her best, especially in public.
As the family sat down, Muarim backed away and sat down on the floor beside the doorway to the kitchen. Here he was to keep still and quiet, only speaking when spoken to and only moving when his owners desired him to do something.
His owners quietly talked amongst themselves, eating their breakfast without notice. Well done, Muarim thought to himself. They're not complaining. He quietly waited until they would be finished. Master would surely have a task for him to do afterward, and if not, there was always ale to brew.
"Kitty?" the smallest voice suddenly spoke in his direction. Muarim glanced up at Young Mistress.
"Do we have any more gingerbread?" Young Mistress asked, giving Muarim her best puppy eyes.
"No sweets for breakfast, Lizzie," Mistress spoke bluntly.
"But-" Young Mistress started to protest. One sharp look from her mother caused her to quiet down. She spent the rest of the meal sulking to herself.
Master announced the finishing of breakfast by clapping his hands together twice. It was Muarim's cue to clean off the table. He brought the dishes back to the kitchen and began to wash them in the bucket of water. As he finished the last dish, he heard a small, "Psst!" behind him.
He turned his head and saw Young Mistress standing right behind him, a mischievous smile on her face. Muarim didn't like her mischievous smiles – they usually got him in trouble. Glancing behind her first, Young Mistress leaned over, cupped her hands over Muarim's furry ear, and whispered much too loudly, "Kitty, do we have any more gingerbread?"
Muarim hated these dilemmas. He didn't like disappointing Young Mistress, but if he gave her what she wanted and Master or Mistress found out, he would likely be punished. I could just lie and say no, Muarim told himself. But then he looked into the eager eyes of the eight-year-old and decided he couldn't say no to them. Quietly he found the gingerbread, broke off a small piece, and handed it to her.
"I love you, kitty!" Young Mistress beamed, then turned and ran out of the kitchen. Muarim felt the word, "Stop!" almost escape from his throat, but he caught it in time. He was the slave. He didn't command anyone to do anything. He hoped she wouldn't run off and get caught with the gingerbread in her hands.
Minutes passed by. Muarim waited in the kitchen for Master. He would come to tell him his duties.
"Beast," Master addressed him, "I've bought a new statue for my sitting room. The other one was getting old, you know. Move the old one to our bedroom. The new one is at Henry's shop, and you will go get that one and bring it to the sitting area. Be gentle with it this time, beast. I don't want to tire my arm beating you again."
"Yes, Master," Muarim said. He'd moved in the old statue. It was so large, so heavy, that he struggled to get it all the way from the shop to the manor, accidentally clunking it on a doorway. It hadn't been visibly damaged, but Master, ever the perfectionist, wouldn't let him get away with such an error. Now Muarim wondered how he was going to get the old one all the way up the two flights of stairs to the master bedroom and then have the strength to go carry another statue back to the manor, and if Master followed his usual pattern, this statue would be larger and heavier than the last.
"Beast," Master said firmly as Muarim started to exit the room. Muarim turned to see Master's face filled with displeasure. He swallowed. Did he miss something?
"You didn't drink your potion today," Master said, clearly trying to keep his voice steady from rage.
Muarim's heart skipped a beat.
Every morning he was required to drink a potion that prevented him from transforming into his tiger form. Yet there his potion sat, full and untouched. How could I have forgotten?! Muarim's mind screamed. I drink that every morning! It was that stupid horse manure, it distracted me...
"Trying to sneak around your potions, are you, half-breed?" Master's voice began to rise. He turned sharply toward Muarim and took a step.
"No, Master," Muarim said, using every ounce of willpower to not back away from his approaching Master. That would just anger him further. "I forgot to drink it."
"You forgot?" Master barked, harshly slapping the tiger across the face. Muarim took the blow quietly, swallowing down any reaction. He winced slightly as his owner grabbed his green ponytail and jerked his head to face him. Muarim had not done well to anger Master this early in the morning.
"Trying to gain back your power, eh?" Master's voice was now a low growl. "Thinking you can skip your potions and transform into a beast."
Gain back my power? Muarim thought. I never had any power. I couldn't feel more powerless.
Still keeping a hold of the tiger's hair, Master dragged him over to the potion and shoved it into his hands. Muarim didn't wait for the command. He drank it immediately. The bitter liquid tumbled into his stomach, bringing a flash of burning pain as it always did. Master took the empty container, placed it back on the counter, then pulled on Muarim's hair until he was bent over the counter too. He let go. Muarim stayed put. He knew this posture.
THUMP.
Oh good, it's the wooden stick, Muarim thought as another sharp blow hit his back. He preferred the dull blunt pain of a stick or a cane to the sharp stinging pain of a whip. Master must have been particularly mad at him, though. He was hitting awfully hard.
After one more painful thud, Muarim felt his hair grabbed and in an instant he was yanked back from the counter.
"Worthless creature," Master grumbled, striking Muarim's stomach with the wooden stick. Muarim flinched, swallowing down the urge to throw up. Finally Master let go of his hair and struck him in the side. "Go get the statue and, I swear to the goddess, beast, if you scratch it..."
Master struck Muarim's back two more times, hard. The tiger's torso now throbbed. This was not a good way to start off a day of carrying heavy statues.
"Go."
Muarim immediately walked toward the kitchen door, not hesitating to fulfill his Master's command, not pausing to get hit again. Just as he exited, he heard Master's voice yell, "And I saw Lizzie with the gingerbread. You're sleeping in the dungeon tonight."
–
Author's notes: I feel like Muarim's a character that deserves more love. He's pretty quiet in the games about his past experience in slavery, only that it was harsh and miserable. This fic hopes to go into some of those experiences, and, of course, how he came about to meet Tormod, which is also not talked about much.
On a side note, I wish more people would do fan art for Muarim. He's a sexy tiger. :3
I hope to keep this story updated on weekends while "Badge of Impurity" gets updated midweek. :) Enjoy!