AU: Enslave My Heart [Rya]

[Rhys Freeman]

Jonesboro, TN - October 7, 1860


Rhys patted the pocket of his trousers gently, feeling the two marbles resting in there.  They were his only possessions, trinkets he brought with him everywhere he went, for he never knew for sure when he would leave one place and go to another.  He was big, strong and a desirable field worker.  The day he was taken from his mother had been one of the hardest in his life.  She had been the one to give him those two marbles, so that he might be able to play with the other slave boys.  She told him never to let the master see what he had, for he'd receive a whipping for sure.  He knew it was because she had taken them from the master's son, but he never spoke of it, and he never showed anyone, even the other boys.  None of them wanted to play with him anyway.  Half white, half black, he was an abomination on both sides.  The children saw him as white with his paler skin and eyes.  Those eyes.. Rhys had learned long ago to keep his head down when meeting people, eyes squinted half shut in order to hide their color. It was a curse more than a gift. 

He was eight when he'd been sold the first time.  Rumor was his master lost him in a bet, and though he was still a scrawny boy, everyone could see the potential he had to become large; a true workhorse of a man.  His mother had a hard time letting him go, but she seemed to be the only one to mourn his moving on.  At his next home he found the women on the plantation were kinder to him than the men, who treated him like the bastard he so obviously was.  He found it was best to keep away from everyone else, do as he was told, and not make himself stand out any more than he naturally already did.

It had been a bad summer; dry and hot and the crops did poorly.  The plantation owner wasn't getting enough money and in order to keep afloat he was forced to sell some of his hands, particularly the ones who would go for more money.  Considering his size Rhys was placed on the chopping block, and quickly snatched up my one Mr. Darcy.  He knew nothing of his new Master as he was brought to his new home, staying quiet the whole way and doing as he was told.  No sense getting off on the wrong foot and starting off with a lashing.  His back was draped with a crosshatch of scars, proof of his 'insubordinate'.  There was nothing warm about the man he was supposed to call master, but there never was.  He vaguely smelled alcohol coming off him, which could be either good or bad.  Good because he might forget about him, bad because a drunk man is hard to please.  All he hoped was that he was treated all right.  He didn't mind so much doing what needed to be done as long as he was otherwise forgotten.

The home his master lived in was large, but he'd seen bigger.  Pale eyes scaled the vast building wondering how many people actually lived within its walls.  Not that he'd be living there.  In fact, no sooner had they arrived that Master Darcy pushed Rhys off onto one of the other slaves, his head bowed low in order to hide his more white features.  The longer he could go without someone noticing, the better off he decided he would be.  What he did notice was the mans face was beaten recently, one eye swollen shut and he walked with a slight limp.  He could only hope it was something the man had actually done wrong, and not something Master Darcy did for his own pleasure.  The man made small talk as he showed Rhys around, explaining where Rhys would be staying and that he was replacing three other men.  He didn't bother going into detail where the other men had gone off to and Rhys didn't bother asking. It wasn't his business and he didn't want to know.  Once he'd been shown around he was sent off to go work in the field.  Not a moment more needed to be wasted, Master Darcy paid good money for him and he would be expected to show he was worth that amount.

[Aryana Darcy]

The year was 1860, Jonesboro, Tennesse on the Darcy Plantation nearly two days time by horseback from lovely North Carolina. Still remaining in the Union but also being a slave state, it was a border state in its own being. From the talk Rya heard when leaving for town and even chats from her father's dealers, most others hated the idea of a nigger being treated like an animal, but contradicted themselves when the idea of equality was even mentioned.

Father laughed over another shot of whiskey before he passed out on the floor, or table, or even the stairs. That's usually how the nights had gone.

Her mother had been a lovely woman, beautiful and charming to the best of her ability, who her father doted on immensely. He would buy her as much artwork as she could possibly desire, and ensured nothing, not even a speck of dirt would touch her skirts. Never being the most kind of an owner, but never being particularly cruel, Mr. Darcy completely changed after his wife fell ill with consumption and died in the beginning of '57. The devastation was apparent in the way he took a bottle to his lips and a whip to the niggers backs sometimes nightly if he was really angry. There were times in which he took that same brutality and beat her, and simply forget it even happened in the morning.

There were moments she considered poisoning his whiskey, but she decided to take a different approach.

Kindness had always been something of a weapon to use against his father because the more that her father was hated and she was loved, the more power she could acquire. He wasn't even aware that she had been educating some of the women on Sundays, when worship was allowed and a break was offered. She took particular care of the women and children, but helped attend to some of the wounds after the men would get beaten. Her father did little, remembered little, and enjoyed when he noticed a discrepancy, or didn't, and had the men beat each other. If they didn't, Mr. Darcy would do it himself. Never did she raise a hand to the men and women, but she most definitely deemed them her subordinate. It was just how things were. Niggers were still niggers, and Rya was a fine, educated white woman.

However, on that mild October afternoon, father had brought in another batch of male slaves to replace the ones who had been killed a week or so prior after her father had stubbed his toe on the wood they were cutting. Rya was wearing a simplistic yellow gown from which her mother had adored, waiting to curiously assess the new additions. The bonnet she wore hid her hair but it did little to hide the fact that her attention had been caught by one buy in particular. A mulatto looking one with his head held low.

Immediately her curiosity was piqued, and she made the decision that she would watch the slave closely.

----

Two days later a trunk was delivered to the plantation and she thanked the two men who had brought it, waving them away from the trunk that sat on the front porch of the house. They had offered to bring it up, one of the men joking that the dumb niggers would probably strain themselves by even looking at a book.

"Your concern is admirable, but no thank you." Rya offered a kind smile, paid them decently, and assured them she was content with her father bringing it upstairs. Seemingly content on their own with the amount of money they had received, the men made their way back to wherever they had come from, and Ms. Aryana Darcy herself made her round to find the lightly colored slave that had arrived just a few days prior.

In the fields, she found, after asking around the plantation grounds as to where he was located. Most of the men strong enough to haul the loot up to her room were either injured or dead after the last round of whippings and hangings her father attended, and so this gave a perfect excuse.

"You," She said simply, watching as he worked at the cotton field with a displayed ease, "Stop and come with me."

[Rhys Freeman]

Harvest time, though the busiest time of year, was Rhys' favorite.  The air was cool and crisp and kept him cool while working.  Summer was too hot, Spring time too wet and Winter, of course, was uncomfortably cold.  Even when his work brought him indoors it did little to stabilize his temperature it seemed, except perhaps in the winter.  But the Fall was a nice time of year, with early evenings and cool air.  Food was in abundance, even during a poor crop season like this, and he found there tended to be more to eat, so long as you weren't caught.  Being caught stealing food wasn't something he wanted to happen to him ever.

Since his arrival on the new plantation he'd seen very little of his new Master.  Abraham, a fellow negro and the one who had showed him around that first day, seemed to be the one in charge of the slaves.  He steered clear if him as much as he could, not because he disliked him, but because tended to stray from anyone with authority.

He had no idea the young mistress of the plantation had been looking for him, so when she called for him on his third day he was surprised.  He paused what he was doing, head turning ever so slightly to make sure it was she who had called him, and when he visually confirmed her eyes were on his he put down his ho.  His hulking figure trailed silently behind her, keeping his head down turned.  He wondered briefly what menial task the beautiful young woman would have for him at the house that one of the others couldn't do, but he dare not ask.  Lips sealed, he compliantly followed her towards the large home, forcing himself not to watch her.  It was hard not to be attracted to the women in their clean, vibrantly colored dresses.  Afraid he would be caught watching, he lowered his gaze once more.

[Aryana Darcy]

Winter had always been a miserable time for both the slaves and the daughter of the plantation owner. At the sight of snow, or even the feeling of the chill in the air, Mr. Darcy tended to drink more, and therefore become far more violent with his actions than any other time of the year. Fall was only a reminder that winter was coming, and it was coming fast.

However, her own thoughts in that moment were solely focused on her intrigue with the slave following suit behind her. There was no reason to believe he would go anywhere else, especially considering he was a recent buy. He didn't know she wouldn't have him whipped, after all. That power was all she needed to get him exactly where she wanted him.

Arriving at the front of the house, the brunette pointed towards the trunk, looking back at the mulatto whose head fell in submission. A brow raised, Rya decided to speak up, "Look at me," She said, her voice softer than a demand, "You are to follow me up to my quarters with this trunk and leave it at the foot of my bed."

He wouldn't dare touch her, she noticed. He was far too submissive to be such an insurgent, and therefore there was little hesitation in the way she readily lead him up to her bedroom, opening the door for him. She could have made him open it for her, but that would only waste her own time. "Hurry up, now. I'm not getting any younger."

[Rhys Freeman]

At her command he looked up at her, his head still bent low.  It wasn't so much in submission now as it was his height over her.  Rhys stood a full head taller, but he allowed his eyes to lock on hers, a shade not terribly different than his own.  He was relieved when she failed to comment on it, so used to hearing about them.  He found the mistresses of the house disliked him for his mixed heritage and what it represented.  He was the product of a man gone astray from his wife, which was true.  Rhys understood this more in his older age, and he could only imagine the beatings his mother received once her mistress got a good look at him.

"Yes, miss." He replied in his gravely voice.  The trunk was large and awkward to carry on his own, but after a moment he was able to hoist it up over his shoulder.  It felt like it was full of bricks, and it weighed him down but what choice did he have? If he failed to follow a simply command he'd be whipped.  Better to do the physical labor now and baby his tired muscles later than to feel the sting of the whip on his back.

The stairs seemed to drag on forever.  Despite the slight draft in the house, a thick layer of sweat beaded at the top of his brow.  Finally they arrived at their destination and he placed the trunk down at the foot of the over sized bed.  Rhys bent down to adjust it, centering it and doing the job right before standing upright and wiping his brow, catching his breath from the workout.  He didn't dare make eye contact, watching the floor at her feet instead for either his next command or to be dismissed.  What he'd give to lay in a bed like hers, though..  Rhys had a hard time sleeping lately with the change of home.  He didn't know the men around him and didn't trust them just yet, and his bed was uncomfortable and unfamiliar.  Even after a day of hard work he had a hard time sleeping.

"That all, miss?"

[Aryana Darcy]

Rya cared little about the actual weight of the contents within the trunk. She certainly wasn't going to carry it up, and if she had to, she would have requested some assistance from the kitchen, though it would have irritated her to do so. The Brunette did not need to make talk about her and the new addition to her slave number to be relevant. It would do nothing but ruin her own fun, and potentially kill him in the process.

The young woman was actually quite intrigued by the eye color he sported with such unease, and rightfully so. Mulattos had always been the worst of both races. Not fully black, and partially white. Usually it was the result of slave masters interest in the slaves. She wasn't an idiot. Months before her Momma had died, a slave gave birth to a child that looked more white than black and father killed both of them.

Rya wasn't idiotic, but she was horrified. How could father sleep with a nigger? She even considered him the reason for her Momma's death. If he hadn't done that, she could have still been alive.

"No." She started, "You're not a full nigger, are ya?" There was no real question - the way in which she said it made that quite clear; it was more of a clarification on her end. "Sit down on the trunk. I'd like to speak with you for a short while."

[Rhys Freeman]

Rhys wasn't sure if she meant for him to answer the question or not.  Did he look like a full nigger to her?  "No, miss." His voice was soft, deciding it would be better to simply answer her instead of letting the question linger in the air.

At her command to sit Rhys faltered.  He couldn't remember ever being instructed to sit down for a conversation.  Oddly, he felt more comfortable dragging the heavy trunk up than sitting down to chat with the Master's daughter.  If he found him in there with her.. He didn't want to think about what might happen to him.  He hadn't been there long, but it was long enough to get a good enough idea about the man who ran the place.  Widowed and none too happy, took to the bottle and got overzealous with the whip, or sometimes his fists, and not uncommonly with whatever he could get his hands on.  Killed a man with a shovel once, or so the rumors said.  Rhys believed them, though.  Even if they weren't true, it was better to be cautious.  He didn't like being beaten, and he didn't like the idea of hanging.

After a moments hesitation he made his way to the trunk he'd just hauled upstairs and sat down upon it.  His long legs bent up and his hulking figure looked awkward in the position.  Rhys looked up briefly into Miss Darcy's eyes but quickly averted them back to the ground, slightly slack jawed.  What could she possibly want to talk to him about? 

[Aryana Darcy]

Here she was, giving this boy a fine place to sit - a comfort from the heat of the cotton fields, and he looked none too happy to be there. Rya may have been a lady, but she wasn't a lady who could be easily fooled. As they said, women were far more empathetic than men. They cared more, and God knew full well that they were more observant, as well.

"I thought so. No full nigger would have those eyes, though I've seen a few with your skin tone. Rare, but still possible." Rya offered him matter-of-factly, no ill will being placed behind the words spoken. If anything, she was gentle with it. No irritation, no judgement, just a factual statement. She doubted he'd enjoyed hearing it though.

The young women, head held high with her gaze fixated on the mulatto sitting on the trunk, took a few steps across the room, analyzing him for what he was. The word handsome came to mind, but as handsome as a mixed breed horse. Useful, fascinating, but still undeniably wrong. Her hand extended, her fingers wrapping around his bicep and squeezing. "You're strong - young." She began, removing her hand soon after it had been placed, "What's your name, Mulatto?"

[Rhys Freeman]

It was only a matter of time before his eyes were commented on.  He listened quietly as she scrutinized him and his lineage, no doubt coming to her own conclusions about his whore of a mother.  Rhys knew she was no whore, and if one of the other negros dare said it to him he'd show them just how strong he was, but he grit his teeth when it came from a white man.  Miss Darcy didn't say nothing about his mother though, and for that he was glad.

He didn't dare move as she came closer, feeling her hands graze his arm, squeezing lightly.  The shirt he wore covered the rippling muscles, though barely.  The tarnished old osnaburg cotton shirt was thin with age, and the work in the field made him hesitant to wear the scratchy old wool coat he'd been given.  With the thin material on, he was sure she could feel his arms just fine, scrutinizing him like one might do a horse.  But what for? What plans did she have for him?

"Rhys, Miss." He answered, not daring to move or look up at her.  As anxious as he was it felt sort of nice sitting there, out of the sun, his fingers getting a rest.  They were tired, like the rest of him.  He allowed his body to relax ever so slightly, his lips pursed gently.  Rhys swallowed the lump in his throat, his gaze falling on her feet as he waited to hear the criticism on such a name.

[Aryana Darcy]

Ironically enough, the young brunette thought nothing of the slave mother that had produced the fine mulatto in front of her. If anything, she was disgusted with the owner for even showing any desire to touch a slave. It was as good as fornicating with an animal - unclean, unnatural. It then lead to what society believed to be an abomination even on the confederacy's standards - a standard that the lovely state of Tennessee had yet to take.

There was a slight amusement, however, at the sight of the subordinate figure in front of her. If he had tried, he could easily overpower her, but he was smart. He would get lynched if he were caught, anyway, if he were lucky. At this point in the year, though, luck was far from on his side. Winter was coming, and with it a horror that can only be compared to the devil himself. "Well, Rhys, tell me what you've heard about my father."

The conversation wouldn't last much longer, but Rya was doing the nigger a favor by asking him and confirming. Already the young woman had an interest in his survival, if only because it'd be a horrible shame to lose him. He had to be worth something, and the waste of money was not something they could afford in that moment with her father's over consumption of alcohol. "Speak the truth."

[Rhys Freeman]

She was quiet a moment and when she spoke again he felt his heart slide up into his throat.  He gave a quick look upward to her before back to the ground, his brows furrowed.  Wasn't that the loaded question! She insisted he tell the truth and a long low sigh let loose slowly through his nose and he tried to carefully form an answer in his mind, shifting ever so slightly on the trunk he was sitting on.  If he said the wrong thing who knew what she would do? Did she want to correct what he said? Or was she going to try and pry answers from him on what the other negros were saying about her daddy? He had yet to witness first hand what Mr. Darcy was like, so anything he said would be here say from them, and last thing he needed was to be hated for snitching.

"I'm sure master Darcy's uh good man, miss." He started his voice a low hum, again shifting uneasily in his place not liking the situation he was put in.  He did his best to be obedient though, not needing to feel anymore of anyone's wrath. "I'm sure he didn't do none've what no one said he do."  He was avoiding the question best he could but he also knew there was no escaping the inevitable.  She'd asked a question and she would demand an answer.  An actual answer, which meant he had two choices; simply answer it or wait for her to ask it again.  He was sure she would, white women liked hearing themselves talk, liked thinking they were smarted then the niggers in their fields, and maybe they were but he knew it had nothing to do with his lineage and everything to do with his lack of a proper education.

"They say he like tuh take tuh the bottle, miss. Sometimes he get real mad an' whip th'niggers real bad."  He swallowed hard, his heart hammering in his chest.  Was he doing the right thing? No need to go into deeper detail.  He could claim ignorance at this point.  

[Aryana Darcy]

There wasn't much reason behind what Rya was doing except for her own genuine curiosity of the mixed breed that entered her father's plantation not three days earlier. Her curiosity had typically gotten the best of her at times, leading to her own beatings by the sweating palms of a man on an alcohol craze, but that was also another large part about why she did what she did. To spite him.

"You listen to every little thing those niggers tell you," The Brunette offered, her gaze falling on him briefly before getting seemingly distracted by a painting found on the far left of her room. "If they tell you he's mad, you stay away as best you can." Mr. Darcy didn't have to be mad to break a bottle and murder a slave with it, he only had to be irritated. It could be the smell of the air, or it could just be a whim of his to act out such things. He didn't care about the wasted money, but she didn't want to leave a place she knew her mother lingered in. She never did.

"I don't find satisfaction in beatings, but father does. Especially in winter." Her warning was brief, and she did little to add to that statement. Instead, she returned to look at him, lips pressed into a hard line. "Now out." That was the last thing she said, pulling the door open for him and returning to the painting that seemed to hold her attention so well.

[Rhys Freeman]

He looked up at her briefly when she told him to listen to what the other niggers said.  Had he really killed a man with a shovel for no other reason than he was drunk?  It was inevitable that he would fall pray to his new master's temper at some point in the future.  If he believed he could avoid him forever he was sorely mistaken and he knew it.  Good or not, he needed to watch his back.  Besides, being new to the plantation, he could easily be pinned for things he didn't do.  Who knew how trustworthy he was, yet?  "Yes, miss."

He wondered why Master Darcy preferred beatings in the winter.  Maybe because there wasn't enough to do and they were cooped up inside? He'd cross the master's path plenty.  He just needed to keep his nose clean and avoid him as much as possible.  Either way he was glad she didn't share her fathers gratification with a bleeding nigger.

She dismissed him suddenly and again he hesitated, watching her skeptically as she looked off to a painting.  His eyes moved to it, noting the beautiful woman painted on the canvas.  He briefly wondered if she was a Darcy as well, but he would never ask.  Probably her mother. He could see something of a resemblance to the beautiful woman who owned him as if he were nothing more than cattle.

He said nothing as he pulled himself to his feet, moving out the door, his gaze on her from the corner of his eye until he was in the hallway.  Was she trying to protect him? Rhys knew if that were so it had nothing to do with him as a person, but likely their need for help on the farm.  No sense thinking anything more of it.

[Aryana Darcy]

December 3rd, 1860

The days had grown longer and her father only grew more volatile in his moods and demeanor. On some days, he was sober and calm - a man relatively relaxed with his standing in the plantation. His bills were being paid and there had been no rebellion initiations within the group of slaves he owned. Some days it had almost seemed as though he had forgotten, that was, until the day passed. December 1st. Then he changed rapidly, downing drinks at an alarming rate.

Almost always drunk at this point, Mr. Darcy did little except stumble around the house or sober up enough to take a day's trip to the city and do lord knew what with the other men. Rya, then, had been the lady of the house and therefore stayed in place of her father and oversaw the labor being done. Being that it was winter, the most arduous task being done was the caring of livestock, which had proven to be detrimental to a few slaves.

There were few times where she had to wonder if the next time he had come home would be with a man that she'd be married off to, shipped away from her home and unsure of the life she would live for the rest of her life. Newly turned 18, she was far overdue, but nobody wanted the daughter of a man who was well known for his alcohol and financial issues. This winter, however, he was stable in his incomes, having an incredibly productive picking season. King Cotton, as it was called, most definitely helped pull them through. Wheat, barley, and tobacco also fixed them a decent income, which was reassuring.

It had been quite a while since she had fixed her attention on the mulatto that had fallen into her father's possession a few months prior, but sitting in the dining room with slaves providing dinner to her and her father on her mother's favorite china, she couldn't help but notice his presence.

Her eyes returned to the steak on her plate, her hand gripping the knife ever so tightly as her father fiddled with one of her mother's delicate cups, the whiskey sloshing around as he spoke of something he had been going on about for years.

"Nobody damn well wants ya, girl." He started, his voice gruff and annoyed. "Tried t'sell ya off and maybe make me some money, but most men don' want ya." However, in Rya's mind, it was quite obvious why they didn't want her and it had nothing to do with her. Marriage brought two families together financially, and if one side had instabilities, no man wanted to pay that off.

It's just how things worked.

"Father, I doubt it's me," She muttered under her breath, her mouth closing over her fork and chewing before she said something further that would really get her slapped.

[Rhys Freeman]

The days were growing shorter while steadily growing colder.  The harvest was coming to an end, something Rhys was grateful for.  Despite the shorter days, they were long and tiresome.  He was up early, and by the time he was finished all he wanted was to lay down and go to sleep, but not before polishing off whatever food was thrown his way.  He ate well there, or as well as he could expect to. Rarely did he socialize.  It wasn't personal, he just didn't care to get close enough to anyone, didn't care for the questions or forced kindness.  He did the minimum required of him outside of his duties, and the other negroes seemed to respect that.  No one pushed him, though he got the feeling the women talked about him.

It was late afternoon on a Saturday.  Rhys didn't care much for the livestock, horses in particular, but he'd been instructed to shovel the pens.  Not one to argue he did as he was told, if not begrudgingly.  The filly didn't like his presence from the get go, but he had a job to do and he wasn't going to let an uneasy horse get the better of him.  It would be best to get it done with quickly so he could move on to the next task.  He should have listened to his instinct, though.  He turned too quickly, hitting the horse with his shovel by accident when it had backed up unexpectedly.  The filly kicked up, whinnying her fear as she stood on her rear legs, catching Rhys' shoulder in her little rampage. 

It wasn't broken, but he was in rough form.  The work in the fields proved to be too difficult and he was doing things too slowly.  He was no use to them out there and soon found himself in the house working along the kitchen negroes.  He didn't mind, though it was more difficult to find himself on his own.  He was constantly surrounded by the women's chatter, always in hushed voices.  He liked being around Miss Ruth the most, though.  She was short and plump and one of the darkest women he'd ever met.  Skin nearly black as coal. She didn't ask him no questions and pushed extra food into his pocket, humming and singing the day away.  He couldn't help but warm to her.

"Now go on ou' tere an' give Mastuh Darcy he watah." Ruth instructed pushing the pitcher onto Rhys.  He took it from her with a soft, "Yes'm." before making his way through the door,  His eyes landed on Miss Darcy first, watching her only a moment.  He could see she was unhappy and soon figured out why.  Master Darcy was going on about marrying her off and he couldn't help the frown that formed.  She was the only good thing the farm had going for it.  He'd been there long enough to know Master Darcy would run the place into the ground and probably murder the lot of them in the process.  If she left.. He didn't like thinking about what would happen if she left.  He moved closer, smelling the whiskey long before seeing it slosh in his cup.  The man hadn't been sober in days and he knew it was only a matter of time before someone got a beating.  Possibly him.  He moved in to pour the water, turning his head slightly at the soft reply from Miss Darcy.  It was all he could do not to smirk at her comment.

He liked that Miss Darcy.