Content.
There is no better word for this state of being – lying here with the memory of him upon my skin, in this warm cocoon of darkness (safety). The linen shift is tucked up as a makeshift pillow, a luxury of comfort now that the cold never visits in the dark anymore. Perhaps it too has been warded away with his spells. There seems to be nothing that he cannot do, my most magnificent mer.
Mine.
It is a strange sort of possession, a reversal of the meaning, but it exists in this place of nothing, this decadent limbo of existence. He is the positive, the light, the future.
Whereas I am the negative, an empty shell of delightful memories, created only by his presence. Because his eyes find pleasure, then I am beautiful. Because his desires are satiated, then I am worthy. Because he keeps me safe, then I am loved.
Because he claims me, then I am his.
And in the dark, it is easy to see that it works in reverse. Because I am his to claim, then that makes him my creator, my owner, my master.
Mine.
Stretching out, sighing with remembered bliss, the conspicuous silence sends shocks of terror up my spine.
No! Another shake of the ankle confirms my fears – the chain was not re-attached.
Don't panic. So long as I don't move, then I'll be safe. Just lie here, and wait for him to return. That's the best plan.
But what if sleep overtakes me? What if I toss and turn, rolling across the floor? What if I've already slept, and am too close?
Think. Don't let the fear lead to rash action. Perhaps a careful search of the floor, a sweep of the hands, will work.
No. Because just as likely as my fingers are to hit wall, they could also hit it. The only danger left to me. The reason the chain is necessary. The door.
There is nothing but disorientation in the black, only the floor available to provide a reference – down. Everything else is there, or there, or there. There is no west, or up, or sideways. Just a vast expanse of there, encircling all around. And somewhere in it, lies the door.
What does it do? That question is pushed away whenever it occurs, the thoughts drowned out with replayed conversations, past caresses, or lingering flavours.
Watermelon is in season.
But now the question of what it does is pressing. Does it destroy on contact? Possibly. Probably. But how much contact? An arm, a hand, a fingernail? A hair? Would that be enough to trigger an instant end?
Think. It probably won't explode – that makes no sense for such a small space. So if it does shock, or burn, it would be magical. And magic needs magic to travel through. Even the minor spark of mana in a child would be enough. A rock, however, is inert. Elsewise the magic would already be racing through the room.
But there are no rocks to toss, no pebbles to use as a detector. The only possessions I have are my (his) bracers, firmly attached, and the cuff on the ankle. And the damp linen shift...
It flops out in circles, an absurd parody of mopping a floor, and it is quickly determined that I'm in the middle of the room. Grabbing one sodden sleeve it is cast into the darkness like a fishing line, searching for sound instead of dinner.
A jangle under the noise of cloth slapping on stone is a beacon of hope. Repeated strokes return the same results, and leaving the shift on the floor I crawl across it, hands tentatively reaching forward, still nervous that somehow fear has led me astray.
But the reward is at hand, solid loops of metal hidden under the fabric. Fingers running along the length, the joy at the end brings a ragged sigh of relief. Carefully, slowly, trying to keep it steady, the open lock is worked into the loop on the cuff. A snick, a testing tug, and security is mine.
Relaxing onto the ground, crisis averted, my mind wanders back to its idle dreams as the fingertips of my hand play with the thick chain. Never has metal felt so welcome, or peaceful.
And for it, I am grateful and content.