Morning again. The familiar scents of smoke and salt were cut through with the gentle waft of tea, s

Morning again. The familiar scents of smoke and salt were cut through with the gentle waft of tea, strong and black in the pot. The blond’s nose twitched and he drew in a long breath, unwilling to open his eyes just yet. He wanted to feel the softness under his cheek, to live in the smell of tea like it was a shell he could hide in to protect him from the rest of the room, from the rest of his life. Of course, that was not how his life worked anymore. At the first sign of stirring behind him, the boy was out of bed, kneeling on the rug with his head tucked down, just like he always did. He knew well the difference between a languid stretch and purposeful waking, and which one meant he ought to stay where he was to offer companionship and which one meant he ought to get out of the way and wait to be needed. His knees no longer felt the difference between the rug and the boards of the deck–it didn’t matter, even if they did. The sounds of a body getting out of bed and reaching for boots was beside him, but he didn’t look. Boots, then a shirt being buttoned up, and the gentle rustle of suspenders sliding up. He knew the routine like his own heartbeat now, and stayed on his knees while the smell of tea drifted in and out of his awareness. When had his life stopped smelling of spices? It had lingered for a long time, as he brought his own scent of cinnamon into this world of salt and tar and gunpowder and sweat. Sometimes the tea was strong enough to lift his head from the sea his was drowning in, this sea of fear and hopelessness and bittersweet closeness. He never let himself rise far, of course–better to stay down here, where he belonged, where he had learned was his place. Better to stop making the choice to resist, and give his life into gloved hands–better to obey.And yet.The brew was strong today. The freckled nose twitched again as the scent tugged insistently at his memories, pulling out thoughts of spices and desert dust and hot brick despite his best efforts to look away and close his mind. The Seeker closed his eyes and exhaled deeply, emptying his lungs to push it all away, to forget it, to block it out, but it all came rushing back as he inhaled, filling his nose and throwing wide the doors of nostalgia. When had he given up, and just accepted that his life would only ever be blind obedience? It had happened in pieces, over more than one fight or beating or escape attempt. Had he really given up on what the rich memories meant? It felt like rising out of a nightmare, only he was still awake and had been for some time. He felt his heart thudding heavily in his chest quite suddenly, out of nowhere. It was making his head swim, and the sway of the ship felt impossible to balance to, nevermind the fact that he had long grown accustomed to the pitch and yaw of the ocean. Is that was it was, really? It felt so simple when he lifted his head and looked at it. Long ago, a lifetime ago, he had made a choice…and that choice had been to obey. But it had never stopped being his choice, even if it felt like he had lost all ability to change his path. This whole time, it had never occurred to him to choose again. He could, though. He could do it today. He could do it now. There was dark worn leather around his wrists. He stared down at it, focusing hard on the weight of it to keep his breathing steady. His hands, tanned and freckled from the sun, but still soft and manicured, kept delicate and sweet at the whim of another. He had done it for himself, once. What if he did it again? What if his hands were his own again? Not like last time he had fled, rushed and terrified and hasty and ultimately unsuccessful. If he knew he was going to live for himself again, to make choices instead of obeying, he would have to take the time to get it right, because after all this time, the punishment would be unbearable if he did not succeed. But sometimes it was unbearable even if he DID follow orders, so…why not make a different choice? He had been a slave for so long, he had forgotten what it felt like to have a choice. Once more, like a sleeping dragon rising from a long slumber, stretching its wings in the sun, he felt hope lifting itself in his chest to warm him from within. Gods, but it felt good. The Wanderer tugged on him to find his path again. This time, he chose to rise to his feet, and he chose to fall into step behind the man he had called ‘Master’. He chose to take his place at the man’s feet, and he consented to the hand on his head, playing with his ear as though to threaten a tug. He was giving his obedience to this to the man now, not letting it be drawn from him by brute force and fear, but only because he was biding his time. Everything he did, every moment of his life that he had to live here in the shadow of these sails, had all been taken ruthlessly, with little thought to whether he wanted to give it. Now he could feel the power welling withing his breast as he chose to follow, to kneel, to obey. Soon, he could chose to rise up again, to fight, to free himself. Soon.  -- source link

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