Most of us long to "Be" but when the path gets too costly, or steep, we take solace in what we "Have." Remove the trappings of what we own and then what is the sum of us?
They were the survivors, abandoned by the allies who swore to protect, in...
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Aran recovered in the subsequent days, the rest and regular food did him the world of good. He had been interred in a small underground cell that was dark, dank and smelled strongly of urine. This bleak holding faced looking down a small tunnel that opened out on to what looked to him to be a high walled arena.
He was not the only one housed here he soon learned, there were other cells cut into the earth that bordered this arena as well as his own. He glimpsed dark figures behind the bars and heard the occasional anguished shout, or sometimes if he was very quiet late at night the muttered prayers or the sobs of broken men. He called on all his inner strength especially at nights as he lay huddled in his cape; it was too easy to fall into a morass of self pity and hopelessness imprisoned here.
His clothing had been taken from him, the garments were no loss, as they were caked in filth and rent in many places. He was now entirely naked but for the steel of his enslavement, his one golden ring, and his voluminous cape. The iron shackles had made a dreaded return, however this time they were not riveted closed but locked for ease of removal. Aran found he had little else to occupy him than to linger by the bars of his prison looking out into the empty sparring area.
Keith was now his appointed jailer, though he was on every occasion accompanied by two capable looking guards lest any of his dangerous charges desire to make trouble. He did not say much to his captive on his thrice daily visits, and Aran did not ply him with questions that he knew would not be answered.
This man oversaw all of Aran's daily needs. Bringing him food, water, and applying salves to Aran's brand so that it had healed quickly and cleanly. The triangular scar left behind was some two inches in width and height. The brand had bitten deep. Aran would wear this indelible scourging mark on his flesh all his days.
He had spent much time examining its angry red presence on his upper thigh reliving again the heady and disturbing mix of thoughts he had had at the time of its application. In the majority though the stigma of the slave brand was still quite lost on Aran. He continued as before arrogant, stubborn and resolute.
Only at nights when he was alone would any semblance of fear or helplessness encroach on his mental state. He dared to wonder if the mark he carried would somehow make him different or outcast in the world of every day men? Would the warriors of his clan know its significance? What about his worldly Brother? If they did would they shun him for it, would he be less? Aurianne, the creature of his desire would she know of its associations? He lamented with all his heart he had not taken her there and then after her capture, he was a fool to have waited.
*****
It did not take many days for Aran to guess of his true purpose here and the reason behind his capture. He had been taken as a pit fighter. A brutal career that could have, and did have for the most part a decidedly short duration. A glorified death sentence in reality. For even if a man was brilliant at survival his owner usually deemed him too dangerous to ever be freed. Often deciding instead to just execute or even poison the fighting slave, or if it would provide a good contest stack the odds so far from his favor he could not triumph.
