The tides have turned

Sleep held me deeply when Scar returned to the furs. I knew nothing of the morning beyond the warmth that surrounded me until his fingers slipped into my hair and his lips brushed tender kisses over my closed eyes. I stirred beneath his touch, turning toward him instinctively, and felt his arm settle around me as he drew me close. There was a gentleness to the way he woke me that made me reluctant to open my eyes, as though some part of me wished to linger in that small space where I could still pretend nothing between us had changed.

When I finally looked at him, his icy blue-green eyes were close enough that I could see their changing shades in the dim light. I searched his face, following the familiar lines and subtle expressions I had spent so long learning. He looked pleased with himself, almost amused, and when he kissed me, I answered before I had time to think better of it. His mouth was familiar, his hands were familiar, and for those few moments he was simply Scar, the man who had once drawn me close because he wanted me there.

Then he pulled me across his lap.

The first slap startled a cry from me, and the next made me twist against his hold. I knew what a spanking meant; I was no child who had never heard of a kajira’s discipline. But knowing a thing and feeling it were altogether different matters, particularly when the hand delivering the punishment belonged to the man whose kisses had just made me forget to be wary. His hand fell five times before he released me among the furs, and I lay there with tears gathering in my eyes, watching him rise as though he had merely finished some ordinary task.

He did not linger to see what his punishment had done to me. He turned his back and went to the sled, moving with the same economical certainty I had always admired in him. Scar did not waste words or motion once he had decided what needed doing. I had seen it while he hunted, worked, and made a home in the wilderness. Now I was seeing it in another part of his life, and the realization sat heavily within me: he had decided how he would have me, and he meant to follow through.

When he returned with the bowl, the warm scent of grains, fruit, milk, honey, and crushed wildflowers reached me. He placed the food into my hands, and I looked from the bowl to his face. He had prepared it with care, choosing ingredients that made a nourishing meal rather than merely filling a belly. I wondered whether he had always been so particular about what he ate, or whether such things were simply another part of the quiet knowledge he carried about surviving in the North. There was much about him I knew, and still there were things I had never thought to ask.

“Thank you, my Master,” I whispered.

I lowered my eyes to the food and ate, conscious of him beside me. He did not fuss over whether I liked it or coax me to take another bite; he had provided the meal, and I was expected to eat. Yet he had brought it himself, and that small fact held my attention as I ate.

When he turned to tend my brand, I watched his hands. Those broad, calloused fingers had wielded the iron, and now they opened the salve and applied it with care. His attention narrowed to the work, his movements becoming measured as he tended the tender flesh. He knew how to handle a wound, how much pressure to use, when to be gentle. I had seen those hands perform a hundred practical tasks, but feeling them care for the mark he had put upon me was different. He had made certain that I would carry his claim, and now he was taking responsibility for its healing.

I studied the concentration in his face, the slight furrow between his brows as he worked. He did not seem troubled by the contradiction that troubled me. To Scar, perhaps, there was none. The brand was his mark, the wound required tending, and so he tended it. There was a blunt simplicity to the way he approached the world, and I had always found that quality both infuriating and compelling.

“Thank you, my Master,” I whispered again.

He washed me afterward, using warm water and mild soap, his rough hands moving over my skin as he spoke. I listened closely when he explained the reason for my punishment. He spoke of the touch I had taken without permission, of the rules I would have to learn, and of his refusal to let me continue deciding for myself when I would accept his affection and when I would turn away from it. His voice was firm, and he did not stumble over his meaning.

I understood the principle well enough. A kajira did not presume to touch a free person without permission, least of all her own Master. I had been raised on Gor; the rules and customs surrounding slavery were not entirely foreign to me. I understood the basics. What I had not learned was how Scar intended to shape my behavior beyond them, or what he considered pleasing in a woman who had spent her life answering only to herself.

Now I was beginning to understand.

He was not simply punishing an offense. He was correcting a habit, making certain I understood that the familiar ways between us could no longer be taken for granted. His tenderness was not an invitation to forget the change between us, and his displeasure was not something I could dismiss by turning my face away or retreating into the forest.

The knowledge brought fresh tears to my eyes. I lowered my head as they slipped down my cheeks, unable to stop them. I was not weeping because I could not comprehend what a kajira was expected to do. I was weeping because it was Scar who was teaching me, Scar who had decided that the closeness we had once shared would now be governed by rules I had not chosen. He knew me well enough to understand how difficult that would be, and still he continued without wavering.

I wanted to know whether he could see how hard I was trying to understand him. I wanted to know whether he recognized that beneath my stubbornness was a woman who had never been indifferent to him, even when I fought him at every turn. But he was speaking, and I would not interrupt him. I listened until he finished, then nodded slowly, tears still streaming down my face.

“Yes, my Master,” I whispered.

I watched his expression as I answered, searching for some indication of what he thought of my response. Was he satisfied that I had heard him? Did he consider my tears a sign of resistance, or did he understand that I was trying to absorb the terms he had laid before me? Scar could be difficult to read when he chose to reveal nothing, and I had spent many days trying to interpret the silences between his words.

He finished drying me and gave a small nod of approval. I noticed the way his shoulders settled, the way his hands moved away once he was satisfied with his work, and how quickly he turned his attention to the next task. He valued competence, and I suspected he would expect the same from me.

Then he kicked my bundle of skins and belongings toward me and ordered me to dress and pack the gear.

I looked at the bundle, then back at him, whispering my response. “Yes, my Master.” My knife lay among my things, and I gathered it with the rest, my fingers closing around the familiar handle. Scar had not taken it from me, though its presence did not mean I could use it as I pleased. I wondered whether that was deliberate. He had taken much from me, but he had not stripped away every familiar thing at once.

I was still considering this when a powerful, lithe, furry body came bustling toward me.

Ember bumped her head against my side, then nuzzled insistently beneath my hand. I turned toward her, startled by the sudden warmth of her body, and for the first time that morning something other than confusion broke through my thoughts. She had grown sturdier, her movements more confident, and she carried herself with the proud determination of a creature who had accomplished something important. Before I could properly greet her, she dropped a squirrel at my side.

I stared at it.

Then I looked at Ember.

The creature lifted her head, apparently quite pleased with herself, and nudged the squirrel toward me again. A breath caught in my throat, and despite the tears still drying on my cheeks, a small, disbelieving laugh escaped me. A squirrel. At long last, I had a squirrel, and Ember had brought it to me as though she knew precisely what it meant.

I stroked the soft fur between her ears, bending to press my cheek briefly against her head. “You clever little beast,” I murmured, my voice rough with tears and the beginnings of a smile. “Look at you.”

My gaze flicked toward Scar before I could stop it. I wondered what he would make of Ember’s offering, whether he would see only a young predator bringing down small game or recognize the little victory it represented to me. I had spent so much time teaching Ember to survive that seeing her bring me something of her own felt like receiving a gift. After the morning I had endured, I held that small triumph close.

I could almost imagine Scar observing her with the same practical assessment he gave everything else. He would note her growing strength, her developing instincts, the usefulness of a creature learning to hunt for herself. That was how he looked at the world: seeing what something was and what it could become. I wondered whether he would ever look at me with that same quiet approval, not because I had ceased to be myself, but because I had learned something difficult.

The thought followed me as I gathered my belongings and began preparing the gear. I would do what he had ordered. I would learn the rules, even if I had to learn them one painful lesson at a time. I could not yet imagine what sort of kajira he expected me to become, but I knew Scar well enough to understand that he would not abandon a task simply because it proved difficult.

I glanced toward him again, watching the sure movements of his hands as he prepared for our departure. His scars, his strength, and his quiet authority were all familiar to me. Yet there was still much I had to learn about the man who stood before me, and perhaps he had more to learn about the woman he had claimed.

Ember nudged my hand, reminding me of her prize. I picked up the squirrel and looked at its tail with a small, genuine smile.

At least one of us had accomplished exactly what she set out to do that morning. Now it was my turn.