Osyth closed his eyes.
As he opened them again, he let out a sigh and stretched his long muscular legs until his toes broke the surface of the water. He wriggled his toes and grinned at them, before leaning back on the edge of the bath. “Life is good” he murmured, the warm water massaging his thick muscles as the scent of soap filled his nostrils.
A voice spoke from over his right shoulder and he turned his head to see who it was. “Would Milord like some more Pilaf?” asked Celnessyn, who met his gaze with her own, a tender and caring smile curving across her lips. In her hand she held a large wooden bowl containing a mountain of Pilaf, a dish from her homeland. He wasn’t quite sure what Pilaf was, but he could end no end of the stuff and he was always asking for her to cook more of it. He opened his mouth and she carefully fed him a spoonful of the spiced food, eliciting a pleased “Mm-mmm!” from him in reply. She regarded him with a look of deep affection before she spoke again in her quiet voice “I am glad you are pleased, Milord”.
He then felt a hand reach out to touch his broad chest, slender fingers massaging scented soap into his skin and kneading the thick muscle beneath. He turned his head to his left and saw Viljawyn, her freckled features focused intently on soaping him up. He smiled and her blue eyes met his, causing her to bite her bottom lip for a moment. Then with a chuckle he sent a small splash of water in her direction, causing her to angrily yell “Osyth!!” He laughed again and her lips turned to a petulant pout. He was sure she’d get him back for that later, but he didn’t mind.
Osyth leaned back on the bath and sighed contently once more. How could life possibly get better?
Then, as if life secretly said “I’ll show you how!” Celnessyn spoke “Should we join you now, Milord?” she asked. Osyth stiffened from head to toe, his lips turning into the widest of grins. “You had to ask?” he replied, before reaching out to grab the soap from the side. “The only question is, who’s first for a good fu-.. I mean soaping!”
Just out of sight he heard Viljawyn giggle, then Celnessyn too. Both women rose to their feet and walked around to the bath to stand at either side. Osyth looked between them as they each reached to unfasten their dresses, a teasing glint in their eyes. His own gaze darted back and forth rapidly whilst the blood rushed southwards from his brain, causing his vision to blur for a moment. Then, their dresses dropped, sliding to the floor in a neat pile, revealing the naked flesh beneath. He closed his eyes, a broad grin creeping across his lips. “Yes, life is very good indeed.”
When he opened his eyes again, he was snapped back to reality. It had all been a dream. The most wishful sort of dream.
He wasn’t in Celnessyn’s bath-house at all, nor was he in the company of the two women he cared for most. No, he was far from all of that, far in the north, a slave to wicked men who brutalised and tortured him near daily.
He couldn’t remember how long he had been here in this desolate land known as Angmar, for it seemed that even the seasons themselves feared to come to this place. It had been spring when he was first captured; the sun was warm on the skin and the flowers were blooming, he remembered that much. But here in Angmar it was always cold and always dark, there was very little sunlight to speak of, never mind flowers.
However long he had been here, it had taken its toll on his body. Once he was a man of impressive physique, who had often been compared to a bear in size. Sometimes, even other people made such comparisons. But now, well now he was just skin and bone. His golden hair faded and dirty, hanging limp past his shoulders, whilst his beard of which he was especially proud was now home to filth and lice.
When he had first been taken, he had of course believed he would escape; in fact he had already planned out the epic saga they’d sing about his adventure. But such ideas were quickly put to bed as much of his strength evaporated to sickness, hunger and the constant gnawing of the cold. That he had lasted even this long was a subject of both amusement and irritation amongst the slavers, who often gambled over the fate of their captives. He got no thanks from those who won, but was punished cruelly by those who lost.
No, Osyth had long since resigned himself to his fate. He was certain he could last a little longer; a few months perhaps, then it would be all over for him. If starvation or sickness did not take him, one of the slavers would surely beat him to death. Even if it wasn’t for the gambling, many wanted to see him dead just for having the temerity to live.
Sometimes at night he wept, knowing that those he loved would never know his fate. They’d surely think he had abandoned them, not caring for them in the least. He was certain Celnessyn would be sad for a time, for she was tender-hearted, but she had already been through so much that he knew she was stronger than she seemed. Viljawyn he knew would be angry, but she was young and pretty, she’d surely find another to make her happy. Many women had to make do with inferior men, so they’d be okay after a time, he was sure.
Then of course there was Ofnir, Skarletta, Ellae, Wrenna, Merys and even Terry. Wait, would Terry try to take his place? Terry the Stallion. He thought not. Terry the Mule more like. Osyth laughed, curling himself up into a ball against the cold. That was the first time he’d laughed for some time. Poor Terry… He was even the butt of a joke for a dying man.
He closed his eyes and in his mind returned to the bath house. There was some soaping to be getting on with. And he’d already decided, he had two hands, he could soap them both at once.
