The material.
They are both crafted from some sort of glossy black wood that I’ve never seen before, not like it’s painted, but rather raw and fresh and unstained, yet still rich with a natural inky hue.
It must’ve come from their realm.
Just like that chalky metal that makes up some of their weapons, or the slender black rope around my wrists, or even the metal hook that I’m tied to. None of those materials are familiar to me, and all of them seem otherworldly.
Not all of the camp comes from their realm.
The food is mostly from ours.
I watch another man—human with an overgrown beard and weathered eyes—drag a hefty bag of rice across the dirt to the cart that’s closest to their end of camp.
This past hour, or what feels like an hour, I have come to learn the purpose of the captive humans.
Slavery.
The camp is being packed up. The humans are the ones doing it.
But the dark fae are unhurried.
Their movements are casual, relaxed, as they pack their satchels and wipe down their leathers and fill their waterskins and sheath their weapons.
Each song of a dagger sinking into its casing shudders my spine. Knives are tucked into sleeves, into the edges of boots, some carefully coil whips around their forearms, others draw scabbards over their heads to sling across their backs.
The procession of movement is somewhat lazy on them, a calm routine, with muttered words and shared looks between them, a familiarity that sits uneasy in my gut.
Some even share smiles.
Then a stocky woman draws in my dull gaze. Another captive. Short, but as tall as some of the swords carried by the warriors. I guess her to be around 5ft, but she’s strong, and she’s hauling a stack of laundry baskets through the camp, full of glistening leathers and black armours and chain-links.
The baskets are balanced on the bone of her hip, practiced, as she moves through the camp, stopping here and there at dark fae.
Most of the warriors don’t pay her any mind, don’t so much as glance her way. A few linger their stares over her, looks of disgust furrowing their smooth, perfect faces. Others, just a couple, watch her with more interest as she places folded leathers and delicately draped armours on the ground beside them.
Then their dilated stares, the gazes of bored predators, follow her on to the next.
The enslaved people have purpose here.
Before now, I never paid any thought to how the dark fae keep their leathers clean or feed themselves or dished out duties in their camps.
They don’t.
That’s the answer.
They keep human slaves for chores.
And when fresh, clean leathers are returned to them, those are packed into the satchels as spares.
From watching the camp, I learn that there are plenty of roles to be filled by the captives. The dousing of campfires, dismantling the dozen tents erected up the upper end of the site, lugging buckets and plastic cases of water to the carts, washing dishes and pots as tall as my legs.
Then my observations are jolted out of my mind when the cart I’m tied to jolts against my spine.
I flinch and swerve a look up at the edge.
A man’s head bobs.
Just… bobs.
