The graverobber leaned on his shovel and sighed. His breath went forth as a white cloud that December morning, and it seemed all the weariness of his scoured soul was in that fading vapor. It was cold. He was cold. Everything was cold. The earth was frozen solid. It was not a good time to ply his trade. Still, the long night was just about over, and his sore frame attested to the work he’d done. The grave lay open below him, a dark chasm, and his client would—he was about to say “be happy” to himself, but he knew better. His client would have to invent some displeasure. He kept that world, client, in his head. He did not like to think about the reality, about the real nature of their relationship. Master and slave were categories closer to describing the reality, but it was a slavery more complete than any natural ownership one man claims over another. His client, there was that safe word again, owned him much more like a man owns his body. The body complains and grumbles, it has its little rebellions of gas and sleep, but in the end, it is an extension of the self; the graverobber was no longer himself.
For further reading within this world:
Tale Told 