#stressposition

They were outside, on the terrace under the shadow. It had the best light, the artist had said. A small table and a stool were set up for him so he could sketch the new dancer. Those sketches would be referenced for wall paintings and other things, if the Emperor wished for art that included the twelfth dancer. 

The way Vasri looked at him, the disgust on his face - Glorien doubted he would want that sort of art on the palace walls. 

'He's still shaking too much', the artist complained. 'Not a very strong guy, that one.'

'Our excuses. I'll fix it', the guard responded. Without a warning, he smacked Glorien across the face. 

Glorien squeaked, stumbling to the side while clutching his cheek. He tried to catch his breath and stop the world from spinning, until he was suddenly aware of the impatient stares the other two men were giving him. He slowly got back into the position, his legs stretched, left leg slightly to the side, his left arm parallel with it and his right arm up. He turned his head to the right, blinking tears away. Luckily the bruising cheek was hidden for the artist this way. 

The man had been tapping his pencil on the table. He now sighed and resumed his work. 

Glorien could cry from the way the man was scanning his body. Too much was visible: his chest, his legs… he wasn't used to wearing so little. He didn't even get to wear shoes. And then there was what they did to his hair. No, he'd rather be left alone. Unseen. Not like this.

But the words the artist concluded his work with, were what cut him like knives. 

'His hair needs to be more to the brown side, it would look better with the other dancers. And I drew his make-up differently; it looks more appealing this way.'

In no time he was brought to the make-up artists and chained to a chair. His hair was washed and dyed again. They scrubbed the make-up from his face and added new eyeliner and blush, following the sketch exactly. 

'Careful! If you cry, the paint will get wet and mess everything up.'

He was dragged away again, led in chains through the large marble hallways all the way to the terrace. The guard pushed his limbs in the same position as before. As if Glorien was merely a doll. 

The artist looked, they nodded approvingly. 'Better.'

***

Glorien had only shorly caught a glimpse of the sketches, but it had terrified him. That little figure was a perfect and pretty dancer. He looked pleasing, a beautiful decoration. Brown skin, red-brown wavy hair with golden tips to match the golden bracelets on his upper arms and around his feet. A short white tunic that made him look graceful mid-dance, tied with a black belt. And now added was a black headband, to finish the look.