Groaning fills Damon's ears. The perpetual odor of urine, sweat, and rot wafts before his face. The salty, damp air stings the open blisters speckling his calloused hands. His back is riddled with scars, scars from the beatings. His breathing is ragged. His ankle is chafed and raw due to the band of iron affixed to a chain, a constant reminder of all that he is worth.
This creaking vessel has been his prison for three years. In the light trickling through the cracks in the deck, he can see the pain in the other's eyes. This is Damon's life. He can only pray that he will go soon, that his fellow slaves will rap him in strips from their tattered garments before his corpse is unceremoniously dumped into the sea. That's all that drives him; the promise of death.
The stairs creak. The warriors must be coming with the spoiled scraps of food to feed them. He has tried to starve before, but every time a deep, primal instinct forces him to swallow the rancid slop. Through the oar opening, he notes the position of the sun in the sky. The sea sloshes only a few feet below. It is not time for their meal, although hunger grips him like a vise.
He sees two men with their spears poised at a unfamiliar face. There is a new one. There will always be new ones. Half of the slaves don't even lift their heads. They just row. They row until they die, until they are replaced. The man seems to be about twenty in age. His arms are bound by leather straps. Damon watches him grimace at the malaise of the place. He wonders how long this one will last. In his three years he has seen many come and go. Damon notices the iron cuff constricting his ankle. A loop juts out, waiting to get locked into a chain.
He watches in disgust as the new slave is lead to an empty seat. He hobbles in an exhaustive manner, as if he haven't slept since he was sold. Long oars are fitted into the wall. The slave's bonds are cut with their wicked spears. He hears a sharp click as the chain is put in place. His fate is sealed.
...
Damon is jolted awake. He hears muffled yelling above. His stiff arms scream at him. He ignores them. His hands are sticky with coagulated blood. He allows himself a glance out of his oar hole. There is a ship with a sloppily reinforced bow. Several rows of oars pummel the water in unison. They are given commands to row. The two ships do not pass each other. They pick up speed.
They collide. The impact jars his spine. Several crates, bags, and other assorted cargo topples to the ground. They have been rammed. A large gash rips through the hull. The bow begins to dip. They are taking on water.
From the slaves, he hears cries, screams, and minutes later, gurgles. He remains silent. He is near the back of the ship. A horrible grating and rattling mixes with the cries as people struggle against their chains. In the dim light, he sees bodies floating face down, affixed to the floor by their chains. He sees men urgently pulling before they struggle to a stop; bubbles floating up from their mouths and noses.
The freezing, salty water is up to Damon's chest. He does not struggle. He does not scream. That would only prolong the inevitable.
For the first time since he was chained into this wooden beast, for the first time since he was ripped from his family, Damon smiles. As water fills his lungs, he knows that he will finally be free.
