74th of fall 514AV
Timothy had forgotten how many days had passed since he had departured Kenash. Fermin, a tall, thin man who spoke so softly that his voice was like a low, dry, wind, had bought him and a good deal of other slaves in the hope of making a profit up north, in the city of Ravok. Timothy thought the man behaved rather strangely, victim to sudden fits of fright, as though some feverish illness afflicted him at random intervals. He lacked the terrifying appeal of one who wishes to beat others in submission, nor did he possess a countenance befitting a trafficker. Rather, his face was pallid and he sported many wrinkles, some out of old age, others out of continuous worry.
Following in the footsteps of the slaves before him, he knew just how right Lady Sitai had been. In comparison to the miserable cold, stabbing at his lungs and gnawing at his bones, Kenash was like a heavenly bastion of bliss and he almost longed back to his rickety bed in Jed’s little shop.
Jed wouldn’t be very happy to see me back, he thought miserably, and Miss Adelaide wouldn’t either and I don’t have any friends there. It seemed like ages since Jed had done away with him, but the sting of betrayal hadn’t quite faded. For weeks he had sawed, filed, varnished, moped and scrubbed the floor, and what had he gotten in return? Harsh words, a balled fist at times, indifference at best. But he has been kind too, he bought me clothes, fed me, and I had a much better bed than the slaves on the plantation. Jed is not a bad man, not really.
Timothy kept his eyes downcast as the caravan hobbled ahead. A dozen or so mercenaries, mounted on horses whose damp breath casted a trail of steam, flanked the flock of slaves, six on each side overlooking almost thrice that number. If everyone rose up at once, Timothy thought occasionally, we could easily overpower them. But who would be so brave to rise up and fight? Who would sacrifice his own life and die in agony so that some stranger might be freed?
Burly men astride mighty horses cut an intimidating figure and of all the arms they carried, the whips were most prominently visible and their owners kind enough to warm the backs of those freezing below them and encourage them to keep up the pace.
A similar kindness was extended to Timothy that night. As the slaves sat hunched so tightly around a small fire that their bodies warmed each other more than the measly flames did, they were unchained and led away one by one to a larger fire a good thirty feet in the distance. Hungry and cold, Timothy almost looked forward to what he assumed to be a branding of sorts, at least the white hot metal would warm him, if only for a moment. But he would not receive a brand that night. Instead, he joined a line of four or five men and became aware of Fermin’s low, muttering voice. He couldn’t make out the slaver’s face in the dark, not until it was finally his turn.
Fermin was seated on a stool and held a single, flickering candle in his hand. The crevices in his face were deepened by the pale light and Timothy thought he looked much older and wearier than he’d ever seen him before. To his left stood one of the mercenaries holding a cup and a bottle.
Fermin brought the candle closer to Tim’s face, his small eyes narrowed as he brought the light down and inspected Tim’s frame. What exactly the old'un was looking for, Timothy didn't know and he pressed his lips together in nervous anticipation.
“Him too,” Fermin eventually muttered. "He's rather scrawny..."
The mercenary poured something from the bottle into the cup and offered it to Timothy who accepted the clay cup but didn't bring it to his lips. A few ticks passed before this disobedience was noticed.
“Drink,” the mercenary growled.
Slowly, Timothy moved the cup to his mouth, but a nauseating smell hit his nostrils, it reeked of murky swamp water mixed with moldy cabbages, without the sweetness. He quickly lowered the cup again.
“Why?” he had the boldness to inquire. "What's in it?"
“It’s not your place to ask questions, now drink it.”
Tim raised the cup again, pressed it against his lips, but then thought better of it and handed the cup back. “I don’t want it,” he said rather too plainly. For a fleeting moment, he was victorious and got to witness horror and astonishment on the face of the mercenary. It filled his chest with warmth to see that he could fight back, even if only in a small way.
“May I go back to the fire now?” Timothy added politely.
Fermin, who had remained quiet up to this point, jumped up, seized Tim by the ear and dragged him forward. “You fool,” he seethed, voice painfully shrill. Fermin’s other hand clutched around his chin and forced his jaw open. A curt nod was given to the gruff mercenary who re-filled the cup and started pouring its contents down the writhing boy’s throat.
He sputtered and stomped, he writhed and cried, but to no avail. The drink burned in his throat and made his eyes water as it crawled down, like a gooey syrup, past his adam’s apple.
“Come on boy, be a man! It warms the cockles!” the mercenary laughed. Go to hai, shyker! Just wait until I make you drink this piss! It wasn’t exactly piss, Timothy knew, but whatever it was, it smelled as horrible as it tasted -bitter and putrid- and Timothy could only assume it came rather cheap as for every gulp of the bottle he spat out, two more were forced down his throat until finally, Fermin decided to release him and he was escorted to sit by the larger fire. Just a few chimes ago he would’ve given his only miza, which he had hidden in the seams of the ragged wintercoat allotted to him, to sit by the larger fire, but he felt plenty heat already, both in his throat and on his ear.
Time came to a standstill as he kept his swollen, reddened eyes trained on the fiery tongues. A haze began to settle over his mind and though the bitter aftertaste stung at his tongue, a pleasant, buzzing warmth stirred in his chest. The fire became an orange blur, the hushed voices of the slaves were but a low buzz in the background. Then, finally, his eyelids grew too heavy and he slumped to the side.
