AU: Enslave My Heart [Rya]

[Aryana Darcy]

A woman of her age was far too old not to be wed to any man, especially a woman of her class. Not necessarily wealthy, but certainly not plain folk. Their plantation was fairly large, but not large enough to be dubbed at the top of the planter hierarchy; a place in society she was grateful to hold, especially considering she didn't entirely have as much to lose and still had the ability to move up should the opportunity present itself. Though, if she were to be honest, it wouldn't matter much to her where she was placed, so long as she could live.

There were few moments where her gaze returned to the many men and women moving about the dining room, replenishing glasses and foods. Rolls made from the plantation's wheat that were touched with honey were Rya's favorite, and as such, they were replaced consistently. Accustomed to the kitchen staff surrounding her during meals, she usually had little to look at or think about, but ever since the mulatto came to work within the walls of the house, everything seemed different. He clearly was not built to be working at the tables, serving them like any nigger incapable of working the fields. He was twice the size of any of them, nigger or white, in the room.

She caught the slight quirk of his lips before they returned to a line after her own comment, but it was shortly after that her attention returned to the slurring words of her father. "If yer gonna speak, do it so I can hear ya, girl." Already frustrated in his wording, Rya could only feel as though this was not going to end well for her, but she never felt the need to hold her tongue with her father. At least, not for this.

"I'm not the reason no men want me, Father." She looked up then, her knife being placed against the table carefully.

"What're ya saying?"

"It's not me they don't want, father," Direct eye contact was made which was something of a rarity, and really, a death sentence for a woman if there were any. "It's you."

Immediately his hand flew out, knocking over the glass that held his water, the glass her mother loved. The glass her mother prized because it was a gift from her own grandmother. But instead of his words directing towards her, his gaze fell to the cup, and immediately his eyes glazed with confusion. "Who did that?"

His question remained quiet in the beginning, but Rya could see his attention was being redirected to the mulatto standing by, holding the pitcher of water. "Which one of you niggers did that?!"

Standing up, there was nothing but poorly directed anger towards the niggers in the room. Many returned to the kitchen, more than likely getting Ms.Ruth, but Rhys stood alone in the room then. "It was you, wasn't it ya bastard abomination?! Niggers always'll be niggers! Ungrateful, always lookin' to ruin their kind master's things!"

Blue eyes fell to the hands of her father, and she saw the clenching of his fists. They moved to Rhys momentarily, catching his eye briefly before her own voice raised just as the man's hand flew out as a fist.

Rya didn't have much of an opportunity to see if the blow hit Rhys, as she began screaming the word 'mother' and how he broke her last prized possession. How he killed her, really, anything to get his attention off of the injured boy and onto her.

"Shut yer damn mouth!" He said, twisting around then, the back of his hand making contact with her cheek - the force of it taking her off of her feet and onto the ground, her hand clutching the now tender skin. She was quiet, but then again, so was he. His head fell into his hands momentarily, but soon after he pulled them away, it was as if he remembered nothing.

"Im done," He slurred then, his gaze clouded with confusion, "Why're you on the floor, girl? Git up."

[Rhys Freeman]

Rhys poured water into a glass set in front of Master Darcy, who insisted his daughter speak up.  As amused as Rhys was by Miss Darcy's words, he wished she would hush up and leave well enough alone.  Why couldn't she just let the man be angry for no good reason?  She was fixin' to fight with him which wouldn't fair well for anyone.  The man would blow up and lash out at someone, most likely her, and almost equally likely one of his niggers.  She couldn't bite her tongue though, and Rhys couldn't decide if he respected her pride or if she was just plain stupid.

Rhys poured water into his mistresses glass as the pair fought and had begun to move back towards the kitchen when the shattering of glass gave him pause.  He quickly saw what had happened; the fine chine cup smashed into a million pieces.  Master Darcy done gotten himself in a rage and was throwing things now.  Being new to the house, he didn't know to hastily retreat as the other negroes in the room had done, but instead froze, unsure if he should start cleaning the mess or not.  He supposed he should, but as soon as he moved to do so Master Darcy insisted the guilty party come forward, likely to accept their punishment.  Rhys wouldn't take the blame for this, not willingly.  He couldn't help the agitation that began to boil in his veins.

Master Darcy was shouting now, insisting on a confession.  He saw Miss Ruth at the doorway, likely having heard the cup smash, but he stood still until the man in charge decided to simply order one of them to clean it.  Doing so before hand would be asking for trouble, lest he decides that the guilty party was the one to clean the mess that the master had done made himself.  That was when he realized he was the only one there, the only one who would take the fall.  Slowly he looked around but the room was empty save for him and the white folks.  The man moved closer to Rhys, shouting in his face and Rhys felt he could get drunk alone simply on the fumes of his breath.  "No, suh" he offered quietly, his eyes obediently downcast, though he kept his feet planted firmly on the ground.  He would not admit to something he did not do. No sooner had the words slipped through his mouth that he felt the man in front of him moving awkwardly.  He looked up just in time to see the drunk man swinging.  Rhys flinched but the pain never bit him.  Too drunk to see straight, Master Darcy had missed his target by several inches, his fist flying past Rhys' face.  He felt the wind whoosh past him and immediately took precautionary a step back in case the man decided to strike again..  He didn't want to start any trouble, he didn't want to hurt any more than he already did with his bum shoulder.

Chaos ensued as the young woman started screaming, Master Darcy turning his attention to her instead.  Rhys felt his blood boil below his skin; he would not stand by idly and watch the man beat his daughter like he did his niggers.  He took a step towards the situation unfolding before him when a short, stout woman, dark as coal, pushed herself in front of him and pressed her meaty hands into his chest.  "Boy, dat ain't yo' fight." Her words were soft and sharp and he glared down at her, his teeth clenched.  How could she expect him to walk away? The sound of flesh hitting flesh tore his eyes from Miss Ruth's and back to his master, who had struck Miss Darcy clear across the face.  Ruth shoved him hard and he stumbled back a couple steps, surprised by the force she was able to use on him.  She was stronger than she looked.  "Get!" She snarled at him.  "Go on!" Rhys looked between her and the white folks in the room, not wanting to go.  "He'll keel you, boy!" Wide blue eyes fell on the dark skinned woman and he knew she was right.  If he stepped in he would die tonight at the hands of his master.  It would be slow and painful, but by morning he'd be dead.

Turning he made his hasty retreat, feeling angry and tortured by the predicament he was in.  It wasn't right to let something like that happen and not do anything about it, but he knew had it been his brothers or sisters, he wouldn't dare step up for them.  It was expected of the negroes to get slapped and beaten, blamed for things that wasn't their fault, but something about Miss Darcy..  Maybe because he wasn't used to seeing white women treated like a nigger. Maybe it was because he had a soft spot for Miss Darcy.  Either way he felt like a coward.

[Aryana Darcy]

The pain from the slap was not a pain she was unaccustomed to feeling; years of living on the plantation and taking the fall for some of the niggers that worked for them was a relatively frequent occurrence. Why she did it was both an ethical and selfish reason, but in the end, her reasonings still caused her to take those falls. Rya, however, knew when to step in and when not to, especially when the negroes were getting what they deserved. The young woman felt she had found a clear distinction between the two, and within that distinction, Rya felt Rhys did not deserve that swing to the face or anything more.

Granted, neither did she.

After the momentary shock of the blow which had rendered her relatively immobile, her hand reached her her tender jaw, and then to her nose, where her fingertips returned dampened and red. It was then that her father told her to stand up, and she did. It was also in that moment that Rya noticed the absence of the mulatto, and despite the fact that her face was aching and burning simultaneously, she felt a sense of relief. He was gone, which meant her father did not feel the need to go after him, or at least that was what she was assuming.

A few moments of necessary stumbling before she was able to regain her composure, the young woman picked up her skirts to the kitchen and called out, "Clean up this mess before you all get the whip," Of course, she wasn't threatening, but considering her father did little to acknowledge the broken glass as he stalked out, she could only assume he did not notice it, and when he did, the devil's wrath would be imposed upon all of them.

-----

The next few hours consisted of cleaning herself up and having one of the female slaves draw her a bath. A good time spent bathing while the rest was spent relaxing until the water went cold, to which she picked herself up and changed into her night clothes quickly and with a more gentle hand - even the fabric caused the slowly bruising cheek to ache.

The nose bleed that had ensued after the blow to the face had long since finished, but for a moment she couldn't even begin to believe that she had bled for anybody, let alone a nigger. Rya may have stepped in several times, but never had her father hit her hard enough to cause any more than a light bruise. Her lips pursed, an action which she immediately regret, as she returned to her room, settling underneath the blanket as she stared at the picture on the wall.

What in God's name was she thinking?

[Rhys Freeman]

He was outside before the fight in the dining room had finished.  He didn't know what was happening, and it was probably for the best that he didn't.  The cold night air bit at his extremities, immediately making him regret coming out without something to keep him warm, but the cool air served to ease his mind.  Why hadn't he been smart enough to run like the others? He'd been warned about the old man's temper, he knew he could lash out at any second, like a mad bull waiting for a fight.  Still, he stayed there like the stupid idiot nigger he'd always been told he was.  Rhys knew he was better than that.  He knew he was smarter than to stick around when trouble brewed.  Miss Ruth was right; that wasn't his fight and he'd have been killed if he hung around.  Killed for a white woman who didn't care no more about him than she did her chickens. But lord if he didn't think about her..

It was hard for him not to notice the young lady of the house.  He was a man, after all, and Miss Darcy was a pretty little thing.  Quiet, assertive, stern but certainly caring and beautiful.  He never acted on his male urges, never so much as looked at her funny either.  He valued his life after all, a life the woman who owned him might have just saved.  Who knew how far Master Darcy would have gone if she hadn't averted his attention?

It was these things that kept him walking around the plantation after the incident, too afraid to go back to the house, too embarrassed to show his face in front of the woman he could have, but didn't save. He didn't know what sort of state she was in. Would she be all bloodied up? Dead, even? There didn't seem to be a lot of fuss going on at the house, so he didn't think her dead. Still, the blow would have left a mark.

Shivering, Rhys made his way back to the slave cabin he slept in, a few of the negroes already in for the night.  He didn't go to his room though, instead openly making his way into Abraham's.  Abraham wasn't there, but he rummaged through the little bottles the man kept, taking the one he wanted; the salve made of the goldenseal root. Miss Fannie was the one who made all the remedies, and though Rhys was sure Miss Darcy had some better salves up at her home, he could at least offer it to her as way of apology for doing nothing while her daddy beat on her.

Rhys left the cabin, again the bitter night stung him, but he marched his way back to the house in his thin shirt hoping not to catch his death along the way.  He stopped at the wood pile, full of wood he himself had chopped, and pulled some logs for Miss Darcy's fire before making his way up through the nigger's entrance at the rear next to the kitchen.  Miss Ruth stopped him on the way in, scolding him again for trying to get involved in the master's business. He'd be no use to no one dead, she promised before shoving a biscuit into his shirt pocket and shooing him off.  He yes ma'amed her and then went through to the stairway leading up to the plantations many bedrooms, plenty of which, he learned, were seldom used and cluttered with old junk.

When he got to her door he simply stood there for a moment, unsure about seeing her.  He wanted to say sorry, he wanted her to know he'd have protected her if he could, but it wasn't his place to say those things or offer up the salve nestled in his ragged old pockets. Maybe she'd have him whipped for his insolence. But wouldn't he deserve it?

"Miss Darcy?" He called out in his rough, gravely voice, knocking on the door and pushing it open.  "I have you firewood, miss."