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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They did not take him from the cart. Aran stood restless on tired feet, watching the occupants of this walled village go about their tasks. Master Jacques had departed up the steps into the largest of the homes. The man named Keith he observed had gone to a flat-roofed, open-sided building that was obviously used for smithing, another older man was there stripped down to the waist making what looked like horseshoes in a red hot forge.
Aran watched on as the man adroitly shaped the metal into useful items. The continuous rhythm of the hammer striking the steel lulled him to comfort. In Aran's childhood, there were not many who still knew this art, however, the few individuals who did were now much treasured in the communities they occupied. The objects they manufactured were highly prized, adding so much to life's comforts, or as in Aran's case discomfort.
He was most weary, and though he was strong it was a chore for him to stand. He shifted his weight from one foot to another to alleviate the growing ache in his lower limbs.
The thick band of steel about his throat was heavy, and rubbing his collarbone to soreness. He sported weeping wounds in places from its wear, and they were not just confined to his neck, they ringed his wrists and ankles as well. There emanated murmurings and the occasional loud distraught cry from the holding cells beyond. Aran felt many eyes on him, was he more, or less fortunate than the masses housed beyond? He did not know.
The appearance of guards roused him from his deliberations and observances. They were coming toward him, five men. One of them bore a stout wooden club. Aran stiffened in his chains as the men drew close, he was without warning hit hard in the back winding him and halting his resistance before it had even begun.
They used this interval of pain and surprise to unchain him from the rings on the wagon. The large heavy links slid to the earth with the sinuousness of a serpent, and a dull metallic sound. He was hit again before he could even begin to think about using the free chains as a weapon. Falling at the second heavy-handed blow. He was then hauled to his feet and marched toward the smithy.
He was taken before a large well beaten anvil that stood to the edge of the workshop, and forced to his knees. The sturdy length of chain on his collar was locked to a heavy bar set in the earth, which he assumed had been installed just for this very purpose. He was instructed to place his wrists on the anvil before him. Aran did not fight, he knew the command meant his hands would soon be free. The rivets in his iron restraints were struck from him in a single jarring blow with a cold chisel by the smith.
Aran could see what lay within more clearly from this new point of vantage. There was the forge he had sighted before angry and red. He could feel the warmth of it even from here and it was not entirely unwelcome. They made no move to remove his collar nor the shackles that bound his ankles. It was at that moment he sighted the brazier, it was loaded with hot coals, and from it protruded two long pieces of blackened steel. Aran was sure he knew was heating there; slave brands.
The struggle again rose in him, however the connecting chain was too short for him to rise to his feet. He was again beaten savagely and instructed to place his hands on the back of his head. Pain won out and Aran after some minutes of futile struggle did as he was told.
The man named Keith looked at him impassively, blue eyes cold. Despite the chill, he was bare-chested. Aran glared up at him from his knees in the dust, he was actually shaking, finding it hard to hold his current posture. Keith was well built possessing the compact, powerful body of a fighter, his entire torso was decorated with tattoos. He was neither tall nor short, hovering somewhere of average male stature and some years older than Aran was. Aran already knew this man above him shared no sympathy for his plight, he was an animal to him nothing more. An animal whose feelings or desires did not matter here.
He was then instructed to rise, he did so slowly, with many hands on him. Aran felt it would be far easier to go to his own execution than this.
However, in reality, his isolation since the war in Bennett's band had not prepared him for the realization nor the ramifications of what was about to occur.
He was roped to the heavy wooden X which stood just outside the smith's work area. His arms were bound to the uprights in heavy hemp ropes above his head. His chest, shoulders, and waist were also bound in the same manner. When they were finished he could not move a muscle on his upper body, he stood there helplessly glaring at the circle of men balefully. None of them responded to him with either sympathy or denigration. Aran found it most unnerving.
Only then was he freed from his shackles by the smith who then went back to his work on the horseshoes, not giving Aran another glance. Keith put his hand on Aran's abraded flesh inspecting the damage the shackles had wrought, the golden warrior predictably attempted to kick him. The man evaded his clumsy attack easily, he stood up and looked Aran directly in the eye. He actually smiled then.
"You don't give up easy, do you? That will serve you well in the weeks to come." He chuckled knowingly, then undid Aran's trousers letting them fall about his ankles.
Keith stood back assessing the restrained man before him eyes taking in his entire naked body. He nodded in silent order, and the guards bound Aran's ankles and legs to the stout frame. They took careful effort to bind his left upper thigh so it was completely immobile. Aran swallowed and closed his eyes before reopening them to look at the dark gray sky above.
"Yes," said Keith close to his ear. "Take your last look at the sky a free man."
Keith walked to the brazier donning two thick leather gloves, he withdrew the larger of the irons from the deep bed of coals. The steel was white hot. Aran found he could not look away, he had intended to, desiring to feign stoic indifference to his fate. Yet he could not. He could feel the burning iron feet from his flesh, is this how his brother felt moments before they had taken his sex. Trapped, dreading, and alone?
The confident man did not hesitate, it was obvious this act was second nature to him, most routine. It made Aran's plight seem all the more obscene. Every fiber and muscle screamed evasion, but the ropes held him immobile. Aran screamed unabashed, as the hot steel caressed his flesh. All in the compound paused at its utterance. Keith unaffected held the iron steady in both hands to the warrior's upper thigh counting out four measured seconds.
The odor of burning meat, Aran could not believe what had just been done to him. It seemed so much longer than a simple four-second ordeal, and although the pain had somewhat receded with the removal of the iron it was still considerable.
Keith deposited the branding iron in the smoldering brazier and returned, taking off his heavy gloves to inspect his work closely. The other men who stood watching nodded in approval of the cleanly struck brand, it was not always so easy to accomplish a marking cleanly on fragile human flesh.
Aran looked down, the edges of the metal collar mercilessly digging into his chin and lower jaw as he craned to see his upper thigh and the burning mark that now graced his once-clear skin. The brand was an almost closed triangle. In this new age, it was the generic brand for a slave, a take on the Greek figure Delta, which was the classic branding of a slave in ancient times. He felt cold water being poured onto the angry mark easing it for only moments before he felt its relentless pain begin anew.
