ON SPIRIT

"The word 'Xithuatlian' is derived from Xithuatli Atl Quetzama, our revered creator and the progenitor of our species. It is said that he created the first Xithuatlians from jungle mud, sculpting their forms into his own likeness, and when he was satisfied, made a great sacrifice: he broke his own Spirit into many pieces, and gifted a piece to each of his creations. His will gave them life, but his Spirit gave them sentience, and they went on to found the first Xithuatlian tribe. 

When a Xithuatlian is still inside their egg, they, too, are given a piece of Xithuatli Atl Quetzama's Spirit. When an egg fails to hatch, we know that it is by his will; he deemed the hatchling unworthy of his gift. His Spirit is not limitless, and his gift is only given to the most deserving. However, when a Xithuatlian dies, their piece of his Spirit is returned to Xithuatli Atl Quetzama and it can be gifted to a new hatchling once more.

When we live our lives with valor, courage, compassion and act with virtuous intent, our Spirit is strengthened. The more virtuous the life we live, the stronger it becomes, and when our lives reach their end and we return such a strong Spirit to Xithuatli Atl Quetzama, it has become more than what we were given. This, in turn, is our gift to him - and a strong enough spirit may then be sufficient to give to more than one new hatchling, and our tribe grows. Such is the symbiotic relationship we live by.

However, if we act with selfishness, greed, cowardice or any other vice, our Spirit weakens. A weak Spirit, once returned, may not be enough to give to another hatchling at all. Such a thing is shameful - a Xithuatlian who feels their Spirit has been weakened may go to great lengths to redeem themselves in the eyes of their tribe, and of Xithuatli Atl Quetzama. The strength of our Spirit is of great import to us, and we live our lives to that end.

We do not mourn our dead, as some cultures do. We may feel sadness at the passing of a friend, of course, but our sadness is for ourselves, not for them. They have gone to return their Spirit to Xithuatli Atl Quetzama and, should he find them worthy, they will emerge again from another egg as a new Xithuatlian hatchling. When a Xithuatlian dies, we have a celebration - we celebrate their life, and all of their virtues... we tell stories, sing songs, and remember together the great and noble things that they accomplished.

In Xithuatlian culture, we have but two sins which are truly unforgivable: taking one's own life, and taking the life of another. To end a Xithuatlian's life before it has reached its natural conclusion is a grave deed, and when a Xithuatlian commits such an act, their Spirit withers and dies, and they are left with no gift to return at all. The Spirit feeds on the bearer's intent; an act of self-sacrifice for the greater good of the tribe is a virtuous act, and their Spirit will be strong indeed, but needlessly and knowingly putting one's self in harm's way is as bad as taking a life by one's own hand. We know we must preserve life - our own and the lives of those around us - if we are to prosper.

The death of a Spirit is truly a cause for mourning. With no Spirit, a dead Xithuatlian will be unable to return to Xithuatli Atl Quetzama, and has no hope of hatching anew. Instead, they simply cease to exist, lost to oblivion forever. Xithuatli Atl Quetzama is forever weakened by this loss, and in turn, so are we all, for we know that without the gift of Spirit, new hatchlings cannot hatch, the Spirit cannot be strengthened further, and the Xithuatlian species - and in time, Xithuatli Atl Quetzama himself - will be no more."

- Setha-Vim, Tribe and Totem: A Historical Record of Xithuatlian Culture, pg. 62

COLLAR

"My first Master was the owner of a modest farm on the outskirts of the Empire. He kept a few animals, and grew enough crops to feed his family and to sell. He had had a good year, and had made enough to purchase two slaves to perform some of the more arduous tasks. He was a cruel man, and saw us not as living things, but as tools to use and exploit.

He purchased me sight unseen; I had only been a captive for a few short weeks, and still knew little of the humans' customs. I had picked up a little of their language - enough to understand some basic commands and instructions, but not enough to pick up complex ideas, and the prospect of being taken from the small camp where I had been kept up until that point - run by the slave-takers who captured me - to somewhere new was terrifying. I do not think I slept more than an hour the night before; the slave-takers whom I had answered to up until that point could be demanding, but they were known to me. Our days in their camp were spent learning. They taught us what little of their language we could learn in such a short time, they gave us instruction on how to meet our future masters' expectations... mostly, though, they taught us to do as we were told, without question.

I am, I will admit, almost impressed by the efficiency with which they converted us from independent and headstrong Xithuatlians into machines, willing to follow any order we were given simply to avoid the pain that would follow when we did not. I had thought I could resist them, that I could simply pretend to fall in line... but I could not. None of us could.

They would give us meaningless, tiresome tasks - move this pile of rocks to the other side of that lake. Now move them back again. Dig a hole, eight feet deep. Put the rocks in it, then fill it in again. Now dig them up once more. Stand against that wall. Walk up those stairs, then back down again, now do it fifty more times. We learned very quickly not to ask 'Why?', and to perform the task exactly as we were told, no matter how pointless it seemed. We were never alone... they were always watching, always waiting for us to disobey an instruction, or to break a rule.

Rules... There were so many rules. Where to stand, how to walk. When to talk, what to say. How to eat. When to drink. Each one more arbitrary and pointless than the last, and all of them, we learned to remember. Sometimes, they asked us questions - always in their language - and if we could not answer, we were punished. If we answered incorrectly, we were punished. Sometimes, I believe they punished us even when we did answer correctly, just to show us that whatever control we thought we had over our fate was simply in our imaginations. We were always being watched, always being scrutinized. We were never alone. We were not free. We were property.

There were two thick posts standing upright in the center of the camp... the most feared punishment was to be taken to those poles. They would chain our shackles to the posts, leaving our arms outstretched above our heads, and our legs spread beneath us. They would bring every slave in the camp, and make them watch while they interrogated the victim about what they had done wrong. Whenever they answered incorrectly, or too slowly, they would receive a lash across the back. This could continue for quite some time... by the time they were satisfied, the victim's back would invariably be a lattice of blood and broken scales. Even now, thinking back on that time, I can still hear their screams. It was the first time I had experienced such cruelty, and it haunted me.

I only felt the sting of that whip on one occasion, soon after I had arrived in the camp. I suspect that they would find fault in every slave's behavior, no matter how perfectly we performed, just to give us a taste of the price of failure... to make us fear it. It was effective. By the time they sold me, I would have done anything they said to avoid those posts. Anything.

I hated that camp with every ounce of my being, but when they informed me I was to leave, to travel to a new Master, unknown to me, I begged them to let me stay. I am not proud of it, but I begged - on my knees at their feet. In their camp, I had learned the rules. I knew how to behave. I had a routine. They had beaten the importance of that routine into us - and just like that, it was being taken away from me. My pleading only earned me a sharp blow to the jaw. It may have earned me time between the posts, as well, but they would not have wanted to deliver me to my new Master with a shredded back.

---

Newly captured and trained slaves stuck out like a Kapok tree in a stand of bamboo for one simple reason: we had no collars. Slaves are cheap in Soladovia... collars, though, are expensive. New slaves are only given collars by their first Master... it is simply not worth the investment to have collars made for every one of us, and it is certainly not worth putting collars on us before we are fully grown.

To understand this story, you must understand our collars. They are not simple loops of metal. First and foremost, Soladovian slaves' collars are not meant to be removed, not while the wearer is still alive. Our collars are thick loops of bronze, and when they are closed around our necks they lock, and are held firmly in place. They have a keyhole in the back; foreigners often think this is used to remove them, but that is not the case.

Our collars contain within them an insidious secret. I cannot tell you how they work, for I do not know - but when the key is inserted and turned, an internal mechanism similar to that inside a clock tracks the passage of time. They can be configured to wait for a longer or a shorter interval, but eventually, when the time is up, a thick needle extends inward from the back of the collar, directly into our spine.

The needle causes pain, with an intensity unlike anything else I have ever felt. It is so great, I have seen slaves beg for death simply to make it stop... but it does not stop, and even then, this is not the end. A second clock ticks down, and when it, too, has expired, the needle plunges deeper, and causes partial paralysis in its victim. They lose the ability to move, but they do not lose the ability to feel. Imagine lying on the ground, unable even to scream, unable to focus on anything but stabbing, burning pain shooting through your nerves. Lying there until death finds you. It could take days. This was explained to us, in all of its grim detail, at the slave-taker's camp. It was the only thing they bothered having someone translate for us. They wanted to make sure we understood, to make sure we knew what was in store for us.

There is only one way to escape this most sadistic of fates: If the key is inserted, and turned again, the timer can be changed, or reset... and only our Master holds this key. If he is displeased, or if we are not where we are told to be when it is time for our collar to be wound, we know - without a doubt - that agony will be our reward. Our collars are a prison without walls. They ensure our obedience, our unquestioning loyalty. We answer only to our Masters. We are at their mercy. How could we escape? What slave would try to run, knowing what awaits them? What slave, indeed. I did. Twice, I tried, but those are stories for another time.

This story is not about me... it is about another of my first Master's slaves. He was collarless, too, and just like me, he was scared. We arrived at our Master's farm on the same day, but I arrived a few hours earlier, and by the time he was delivered, I was struggling. Our Master and his family did not speak our language, and I only knew the barest basics of theirs; it was clear right from the beginning that he had little patience for mistakes.

I quickly came to understand that we were the first slaves that he had owned. He was unprepared for our arrival; he clearly wanted to establish himself as our Master, but he had not considered the language barrier that newly captured slaves would present. To make matters worse, he seemed unfamiliar with the collars. It took him many minutes to figure out how to put mine onto me, and he spent many more to figure out how to use the key.

Even now, I do not know how the key is used, but it is complex. The manner in which it is inserted, and the direction and amount that it is turned sets the mechanism within the collars, and if it is not done correctly, the timer in the collars may be set improperly, either far longer than intended, or far shorter.

Our Master had had an argument with his wife in my presence shortly after I arrived. I could not understand most of what was being said, but I do know that I was the subject of their disagreement. When their quarrel was resolved, I was left alone with him; he was still angry. I believe that he was upset that I had been privy to their argument in the first place, and he took his anger out on me.

I was put to work immediately, mucking out stalls in the barn, but I was unfamiliar with the task - I had never so much as seen a farm before, and he wanted everything done just so. He quickly became frustrated at my lack of comprehension, and he spent the morning watching me, shouting at me, and correcting my errors. And so it was that by the time the second slave arrived that afternoon, our Master was in a very foul mood. 

Daryi-Vel, as I would later learn he had been Named, was older than I, but not by much. He had not come from my tribe, and I did not recognize him. He was immediately set upon by our Master, whose anger was redirected to him, and while I will admit I was glad that our Master had a second outlet for his rage, I felt guilty that - at least by my own perception - it had been my fault.

I could tell that Daryi-Vel was nervous from the moment he arrived - his hands shook, his eyes darted this way and that, and he would flinch whenever our Master shouted at him, but when our Master brought out his collar, I feared he would faint. He was clearly terrified of the thing, and I do not blame him - if its function had been explained to him as it had to me, he had good reason to be, as did I.

Our Master made him kneel before him, facing away, as he had with me earlier in the day. Daryi-Vel was scared, and looked like he might scream, or try to flee, or faint at any moment. Our Master had similar difficulties with Daryi-Vel's collar as he had with mine, and by the time he inserted the key, Daryi-Vel was trembling so severely I thought the shaking might cause our Master to operate it incorrectly. I walked up to him, kneeled down in front of him, took his hand in mine, and squeezed it tightly... it helped, and he focused his attention on me, not on what our Master was doing... I had expected to be shooed away for my intervention, but our Master seemed to recognize that I was helping, and let us be.

From then on, we were allowed to work together on whatever tasks our Master assigned us to. Daryi-Vel had little more understanding of our Master's language than I did, but he knew some words that I did not, and I knew some that he did not, and between us, we were usually able to work out what was expected of us. Our Master accepted this arrangement, and over the first few days, we slowly learned to work on the farm. By the end of the first week, I had once again established a routine, and it grew easier. Daryi-Vel, however, was not so quick to adapt. He did not have trouble with the work - he quickly grew proficient at our most commonly done tasks; what gave him trouble was his collar.

Our Master did not have quarters for us, and we were left to sleep in his barn. In truth, it was not as bad as it could have been. We used hay and burlap to craft makeshift bedding for ourselves in the loft, and once we grew accustomed to the sounds of the livestock below, I found that sleep came easily to me. Daryi-Vel, though, was not so fortunate. He suffered from night terrors, and I would frequently observe him in the middle of the night shaking in his sleep. He would wake himself up screaming, flailing and clawing at his collar. On more than one occasion I had to physically restrain him from trying to pry it from his neck.

He confided in me that he had a recurring nightmare wherein it would tighten around his neck until he could not breathe. He would wake up feeling like he was choking. I believe that, to him, the collar was a constant reminder of what had become of us - of the freedom we had lost, the new lives we had been forced into.

After the first few nights, I began to go to him when he would wake. I would squeeze his hand in mine, talk to him quietly, and remind him that he was not alone. It seemed to help; he would recover quickly, apologize for waking me, and we would return to sleep once more, until he next woke up screaming and shaking. In time, we started sleeping beside one another, and he began to wake less frequently. In truth, I was comforted by his presence as much as he was by mine. It had been many weeks since I had had someone I would truly consider a friend.

Daryi-Vel was a fast learner, and he picked up new words in our Master's language much faster than I did. He, in turn, would teach them to me, and we would practice together while we worked. In a week with Daryi-Vel, I made as much progress as I had made in the month that I had spent in the slave-taker's camp. It is a testament to the difference a good teacher makes. Over time, we grew more proficient together; I owe most of my early command of their language to Daryi-Vel's tutelage.

For my part, I would tell him stories from my tribe, from before we were taken, and help him to remember his own, in turn. I would relate something to him, which would spark his memory and he would share some details with me, and back and forth we went... It made the long days working on the farm feel much shorter. 

Daryi-Vel was from a tribe on the western edge of the jungle. Their village was along the shore of a river, and they subsisted primarily on fishing. They were a smaller tribe; they were only 14 strong when they were taken. Daryi-Vel was the cook, and prepared meals for his entire tribe, every day. He would tell me of the foods he would make - all of them sounded exotic to me; my tribe did not have easy access to fish.

It should come as no surprise that we grew quite close. We were each other's only link to our past, to our culture, or memories, our brothers and sisters. We were the only companionship either of us would find on the farm, and by working together and talking together, our time there was tolerable. I will not claim that I enjoyed my time there - but Daryi-Vel was the one thing about the place that I liked.

---

Once we became familiar with what was expected of us, working on the farm was not wholly unpleasant. It was tiring, and we were expected to work from dawn until after dusk each day, but it was not difficult, and we were able to focus more and more on our conversation. This, perhaps, was our mistake.

Our Master came out to where we were working one day, and found us sharing stories, talking in our own language. We were still working, as we had been for weeks, but he became irritated; he believed that we were talking about him or his family, and we simply did not have the vocabulary nor the command of his language to adequately explain ourselves. He forbade us from speaking in our language from then onward. We still carried on, but our conversations went from jovial and pleasant to occasional hushed whispers, and we were constantly looking over our shoulders. The days began to feel longer, the work more tiring, and Daryi-Vel's night terrors came back in earnest.

Over the days that followed, our Master grew increasingly cruel. I do not have a complete understanding of what transpired to cause this, but it is my belief that it was because he and his wife were fighting again. I heard yelling from their house on more than one occasion, and while I could not fully understand the cause, the word 'slave' came up repeatedly. I strongly suspect that she objected to our presence on the farm. She never interacted with us, and would inconvenience herself to avoid having to so much as look at us. Whether she objected to slavery as a concept, or whether she objected to Daryi-Vel and I specifically, I do not know. Our Master seemed unwilling to accept that we, mere slaves, might be happier with each other's company than his wife was with his.

Whatever the cause, our Master took his frustrations out on us with increasing regularity. He would find fault in our work where I believe none existed, and we would be beaten for the slightest transgression. We grew to dread the yelling in the house, because it would always be followed by our Master coming out to inspect our work, and he would always find it lacking.

There was a large tree beside the barn; it was there that he would bring us. A pair of thick ropes were slung over one of the sturdier branches, and he would attach it to the shackles on our wrists, and hoist us from our feet. We would dangle there and he would hit us, again and again - sometimes with his fists, sometimes with a leather strap, sometimes with a wooden switch. Eventually, he dispensed with the pretense that he was displeased with our work. He would come outside and simply point at one of us, and it was understood that we were to report to the tree. If his chosen victim was not quick enough to comply, he would instead bring both of us. We started keeping our heads down and focusing on our work in hopes that by waiting out their quarrel, our situation would improve. I wish I could tell you that it did. What we could not have accounted for was our Master's son.

He was a young boy; I find it hard to judge humans' ages even still, but I would estimate that he was perhaps ten years old. He would occasionally watch us working while he played, but he never approached us, until that day. We saw him hiding beside the barn, watching us feed the livestock, and when we noticed him, it spooked him, and he ran back to the house. A few minutes later, our Master stormed out, furious.

I do not blame the boy for what transpired; I do not think he intended us harm... He was merely curious, and we did not mean to scare him, but his father would hear none of it. I do not know what he thought had happened - whether the boy told him we had hurt him, or whether he simply assumed that we had intended to, but I had never seen him so upset. He brought both of us to the tree, yelling at us to keep away from his boy; when I tried to find the words to tell him that it had been the boy that had approached us, it only further incensed him.

He returned to the house, and came back with the muzzles. We had been wearing them when we were delivered to him, but we had not seen them since. I had assumed he had not kept them, but I was proven wrong. Daryi-Vel saw them, and started to panic, even more than he already was; he tugged at his shackles, as if trying to pull his hands through the bronze rings, and kicked at the air uselessly.

I tried to quiet him, but I do not believe he even heard me. He was too focused on our Master walking towards us, and on his present helplessness. Our Master came for me, first, and I remained quiet as he pushed the muzzle over my face, fastened the straps behind my head, and locked them in place. My mind was racing, trying to think of something - anything - that I could say... I have gone through that moment in my head many times since, though, and I do not believe that there is anything I could have done that would not have made the situation worse.

Our master went for Daryi-Vel next, and I could tell that my Xithuatlian friend was not thinking clearly. He was flailing and kicking, and would not hold still. Our Master ordered him to stop, but he would not. After a few minutes of struggling to quiet him, it happened: Daryi-Vel's toe claws raked across our Master's leg, cut into his leggings, and drew thin lines of blood, which began to stain his clothing at an alarming rate.

Both of them seemed shocked - Daryi-Vel sobered almost immediately and stared down at what he had done, dangling from his shackled wrists a foot above the ground, eyes wide, mouth shaking. Our Master stared, too, for a few moments, then turned and stormed back towards his house. Daryi-Vel broke down; his whole body quivered and tears ran down his face. He started apologizing as quickly as he could, and his voice shook with terror - he knew he had made a grave error, and was trying to correct it, but our Master did not turn around, and gave no indication he had even heard. He disappeared into his house a few moments later, leaving us alone in the waning light.

Daryi-Vel wept openly. He spent many minutes shouting apologies towards the house, then started begging for forgiveness, and then broke down into loud sobs. I wanted terribly to comfort him, to go to him and hold his hand and tell him it would be alright... but I, like him, was still dangling from the tree, and I could not speak well enough through my muzzle even to offer him any kind words. It tore me up inside to see him like this, but even beyond that, I was afraid for him. Our Master was not an understanding or forgiving man. By the time our Master returned, it was nearly fully dark. Daryi-Vel began pleading anew when he saw our Master approaching, but our Master paid him no mind - he was coming for me. In one hand were the keys to our collars, and in the other was Daryi-Vel's muzzle.

I tensed, unsure what to expect. My wrists ached, and my scales had been rubbed raw by the shackles, my muscles burned from the strain of holding the position for so long, and I was exhausted, both physically and mentally, by the day's work and the night's events. My shoulders felt like they would give out at any moment, and I was having difficulty breathing. He didn't say anything - he simply walked up behind me, leaned up and inserted the key into my collar, and turned it. I heard the now-familiar clicks of the mechanism inside being set. He removed the key, and slackened the ropes holding me aloft until - mercifully - my toes touched the ground, and then he turned to Daryi-Vel.

Our Master released the ropes that held him, and Daryi-Vel fell to the ground, his whole body quivering. He dropped to his knees and bowed his head - it was the position our Master had us assume when he would wind our collars. Our Master walked behind him, pulled the muzzle over his face roughly and locked it in place, then he ordered Daryi-Vel up, and ushered him towards the barn. Daryi-Vel was scared and confused, but he complied immediately - it was the fastest I had ever seen him obey an order. I believe we both knew he was to be punished, but I would not have guessed what was about to transpire.

Our Master chained Daryi-Vel to the barn, using one of the chains normally reserved for his livestock. It attached to the shackles on his wrists, and forced him to kneel on the cold, muddy ground; it was not long enough to allow him to stand without hunching over. Daryi-Vel stared up at our Master, awaiting the punishment he had to know was coming, but our Master simply walked back to his house, without a word, leaving Daryi-Vel there, and me hanging by my wrists in the chill night air.

The realization of what was happening came to Daryi-Vel before it came to me. Our Master had simply abandoned him there, cold, muzzled and alone - he had not wound Daryi-Vel's collar. My friend once again started to panic - he tugged at his muzzle, trying to pull it from his face, and when that proved fruitless, he turned to the chain holding him to the wall, and tried to pull it free. He yanked and strained until he could pull no more, and even from my precarious position beneath the tree, I could see his nostrils flaring with each frantic breath, his hands shaking, his chest heaving. Worst of all, I could hear his cries, even muffled by the muzzle.

When he had exhausted himself, he slumped against the wall, and looked up at me. I saw in his eyes a look of utter hopelessness, fear, and - perhaps worst of all - loneliness. I tried to speak to him... I tried to say his name, at least, but the muzzle was tight around my face, and I was out of breath. I couldn't make my words loud enough for him to hear, but I could tell that he could see me trying. He tried to call out to me, but I could not hear him, either - his voice was hoarse from yelling, and he was no more accustomed to speaking through a muzzle than I.

We stayed there staring at one another until well into the night. It is my understanding that humans' eyes are maladaptive in low-light conditions, but we can see well enough in all but total darkness. The moon's light was more than enough for us to manage. Daryi-Vel had fallen asleep a few times, only to be awakened by his nightmares. I could not sleep, not hanging from the tree as I was. I was standing on my toes, my hands wrapped around the ropes tied to my shackles, doing my best to spread the strain across as many muscles as I could, but I was struggling. I was focused on breathing, keeping the pressure off of my chest, determined to make it through the night when I heard Daryi-Vel start screaming again.

I thought he had simply awoken from another night terror, but when I saw him, I knew that it was more than that. He writhed against the barn, pulled and twisted his chains, threw himself against the wall, clawed at his collar. He screamed until his hoarse voice failed him entirely, and even then he continued trying, despite little sound coming out. I could not see him clearly, as he was some distance away, but I could see the blood dripping down the middle of his back, directly from the center of his collar.

I wanted to look away, to cover my ears and ignore the horror I was witnessing, but I could not - I would not, for I felt that turning away would be akin to abandoning my friend to his fate. Even though I knew it was hopeless, I still watched, willing him to keep fighting, to get through this, somehow. I hoped that, in a last moment of inexplicable mercy, our Master would appear, wind Daryi-Vel's collar, and save him from his suffering, but deep down, I knew that he would not. Still, I could not look away.

Daryi-Vel dug at his neck with his claws; he drew blood, pried his own scales from his very flesh in his desperation, in a useless attempt to make the pain stop. He dug and pulled and tore for what felt like two eternities and then, as suddenly as it had started, he went limp. He hung by his wrists, his head hanging down towards the mud, blood dripping from his collar and his neck. At first, I thought it was over. I wanted to believe it, but then I saw his eyes, and I could not deny the truth. He hung there not dead, but paralyzed, only his eyes and eyelids moving, twitching this way and that frantically, tears of pain still streaming from them, and I knew that his stillness signaled no relief.

I could not stop myself from weeping for him. He did not deserve this... no one deserved this, and I felt first sorrow, then anger, then grief. I called to him, my muffled voice as loud as I could manage it, and while I cannot truly be sure, I believe I saw his eyes look towards me, focus on me for the briefest of moments. I didn't know what to say... Nothing I could do would take his pain away. Nothing I could say could possibly convey how I felt, about him, about what was happening, about our Master... So I did the only thing I could think of, at that moment: I started to hum.

My song was shaky and mournful, and I had to stop frequently to catch my breath, but I believe that it helped him, that his twitching, pained eyes steadied for just a few moments while I sang to him. In truth, I cannot know if he even heard me. Perhaps it was simply my imagination, a fantasy I convinced myself of to make my own pain subside, but I choose to believe that he could. I must believe that he could. I sang to him for the entire night, until the sun rose over the horizon... It was a small thing, but it was all I could do for him. 

---

Our Master came out early in the morning with a bandage wrapped around his leg. He ignored Daryi-Vel completely - didn't even look in his direction; instead, he walked to the tree and released the ropes that held me. I collapsed to my knees, my legs simply unable to hold my weight anymore; my arms felt like they had been pulled from their sockets, and I gasped for breath, but even so, I couldn't take my eyes away from Daryi-Vel. Our Master gave me a list of tasks to perform before returning to the house, as if this day was simply like any other, but I did not hear a word of it.

I crawled to Daryi-Vel on my shaking hands and knees, through the blood, the mud and the tears. I lifted his limp head and looked into his eyes, but even then, I am not sure that he truly saw me. I held him in my arms, but I am not sure that he felt it. All I could see in his eyes was pain - horrible, soul-rending agony. I held him with shaking hands. I told him that I was sorry... that I cared for him deeply. I moved my hands to his neck, above that hateful, horrible collar, and tightened my fingers around his throat.

His head twitched, and I heard a rasping, gurgling sound from his mouth, but he did not - could not - move. I stared into his eyes, my thumbs squeezing hard, closing his throat, cutting off his air, just as his collar had done to him so many times in his nightmares. Tears streamed down my face, but I did not relent until I saw his eyes roll back into his head. Daryi-Vel was dead... I had killed him.

For the next few days, while I worked, I told the stories that I could remember of his life, of his virtues, of his deeds to no one in particular... There was no one to celebrate his life with, so I held the celebration myself... just me and the cows. I was sold to a new Master only a few days later; it is my understanding that it was my Master's wife who made the decision, after what had happened that night. I felt none of the fear that I had felt before being taken from the slave-taker's camp to my first Master; there was nowhere I wanted to be less than that farm.

At the moment Daryi-Vel's life left his body, I believed that the emptiness I felt in my heart must be the feeling of my Spirit withering and dying. The pain I felt as I held his lifeless body was like nothing I have felt since. I would gladly spend a lifetime between the slave-takers' posts before I would choose to feel it again. Yes - I, Setha-Vim, of sound mind, admit that I took another Xithuatlian's life. I can only hope that my Spirit understood my intent - that it was not an act of malice, but an act of mercy. I have spent many sleepless nights wondering how my Spirit fares, if I even have a Spirit left at all. I choose to believe that it is with me still. I have lived my life in accordance with that belief, making every effort to atone for my sin. I can only hope, when my time comes to return it to Xithuatli Atl Quetzama, that it will have been enough."

- Setha-Vim