Old Soul Syndrome |ONC 2020|

Midsummer, 53 BC

This whole...situation is not only bizarre, but is ultimately unfair.

I've spent literally days living through fear and horror, witness to blood and death. But as soon as there is peace, as soon as I've made up my mind to the fact that it wouldn't be such a terrible way to live, I'm whisked away to something new.

A new time, a new place.

I should have known that as soon as I laid down with Deniel last night (or whatever), in love and happy, that I wouldn't be waking up with him. That Abby wouldn't get to see London or marry Deniel. Get that wedding night I'd half-fantasized about when he had dropped like a stone into sleep, his arms still loosely wrapped around me.

I'm not going to bother asking why anymore. I know the answer.

Because life, ultimately, is unfair.

Case in point—I woke up as a slave. I fell asleep the future wife of a Norman lord, and woke up a frickin' slave.

I'm the daughter of a woman who was stolen from Gaul after Caesar's troops conquered it. Or, at least, I guess that's the case. I never knew my mother. She died when I was young and I was sold as soon as I turned twelve.

As unfair as life is, I suppose I'm lucky in the fact that I was bought by a rich matron looking for a pretty house girl. I could have been sold to one of the brothels. Lately, I don't see what the difference would be.

I've been working all day, cleaning and decorating the domus for a party Mistress is planning to celebrate her son's thirteenth birthday tomorrow. It will be a busy day and I can only be thankful that I'll actually be allowed a restful night.

My name is Abelia this time. That was the name I was given by my mistress. Apparently, my blonde hair reminded her of the pale yellow blooms that grow on trellises in the atrium. 

One of the stranger things is that Abelia doesn't actually know how to write. Or read. I'm writing this on little scraps of parchment cleaned from the master's study in modern English, in Abby's handwriting. It's sort of a strange thing to see. Comforting, in a way.

I haven't seen my own handwriting in a long time.

Unfair as this all is, maybe I can bank on a little luck. There doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to how long I stay in each time. Maybe I'll open my eyes and be somewhere else tomorrow. Somewhere I'm not a slave.

I doubt it, but hope is a stubborn thing.

                                                                                     ~~*~~

I've begun to suspect this party is less about the young master, and more about Master Claudius' political aspirations. Dozens have been invited and no expense has been spared on food and entertainment. The house slaves have cleaned every surface to within an inch of its life and the mistress has been flittering around, overseeing every tiny detail from the dinner preparations to the draping of each flower garland.

Just before darkness fell and guests started arriving, I returned to my quarters and began to dress in the beautiful tunic mistress had laid out. I would be expected to keep wine glasses full and provide something nice to look at during dinner. 

I finished braiding my hair and scurried down to the kitchens for Mistress' last-minute inspection. She gave me a sour nod of approval, but didn't spare me much attention. She rarely does—like not acknowledging my existence will change anything.

It's no secret that her husband visits my room. I can't decide why she's shocked by this. It was her decision to bring me here. Why she didn't assume my exotic northern coloring and the virtue of my pretty face wouldn't draw her husband's attention, I have no idea.

And I'm by no means the only slave girl who suffers his attentions. Many of the slaves are pretty—Mistress claims to prefer to fill her home with lovely things—but recently I seem to have received the lion's share. Perhaps that is what angers her? She doesn't care if he fucks the slaves just as long as he doesn't give any one of them too much attention?

I don't pretend to understand. All I know is they both have a hand in my suffering.

A suffering I don't intend to live with for much longer. 

Tonight is my best chance. The party will stretch into the small hours of the morning and tomorrow the master and his family won't stir until late.