Young Writers Society

Pratik wasn’t used to this phenomenon. Usually he counted down moments until his assignment ended. Or until his sentence was up in someone’s prison. He didn’t usually count down minutes to willingly giving up his freedom.

But, here they were.

He reluctantly walked to the courtyard, wondering if he’d be able to keep his own furs or have to the pathetic excuse of a coat the assholes gave the slaves. He bowed a bit to Gaius. “Your lordship.”

Gaius dipped his head. "Are you ready, Pratik?" No skirting around the issue; he didn't want Nasa here any longer than necessary. The slaver had arrived and was up on his horse again. His guards stood at the cage with manacle and a metal collar ready.

Every instinct that Pratik had was screaming at him to run. Ash and his money be damned. He could go back to the East and make money just as easily. Easier, even. Sure, he preferred spying to killing. But the sight of chains made his stomach sick.

Sure, he’d ended up in them plenty of times. Enough that he’d invested time in learning how to pick the cuffs. But he still couldn’t manage the collars. The angle was too awkward for him to do blind. And, someone — usually multiple someones — always ended up getting punched or bit or kicked when they tried. Now, he’d be doing it willingly. That was new.

“Yes, sir.” Pratik bowed again, keeping his face impassive even as his chest felt so tight he couldn’t draw another breath. He was stuck with this stupid fucking plan now. His reputation was all he had and he couldn’t risk his reputation to be tainted with unreliability or cowardice.

He stepped off the slight platform and strode towards the man holding th chains, forcing his fists to unclench.

The man opened the manacles and strode forward. Gaius looked on, expressionless. He was working to dip into that pool of calm right now, quelling the turmoil within. Outwardly he appeared as he wished: the cold-hearted Serpent Lord doing what was necessary to win the war. He wanted very much to feel as unruffled as he looked.

Pratik's hands curled into fists again.

His heart fluttered, feeling as though a dagger was being driven further into his chest with each and every step that he took. He swallowed hard. This was fine. Two weeks. That would be his shortest imprisonment yet. Two weeks.

He slowly, painfully, forced his fists to unclench again and held his arms out to the man. He clenched his teeth as the man snapped the cuffs on savagely, making no attempt to keep them from pinching Pratik's arms -- hard. It'd bruise for sure. Well, that was unnecessary. But, he didn't give the man the satisfaction of a flinch or a curse.

He set his jaw and lifted his chin, keeping the fear buried deep in his chest and off his face, as the man snapped the collar on just as roughly, then put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a rough shove towards the cage. The authentic experience indeed. He cast a final glance towards Ash.

Gaius met Pratik's eyes evenly. "Good luck," he called. "Have a safe journey." The trip from here to Wolf Keep was no easy feat; there was a reason the forest on the way there was known as the Bone Wood. Spiders, bears, and wolves prowled the entire area, not to mention territorial elk and the occasional Northern cat from the mountains. And that was if the cold didn't do you in. Such a big group ought to be safe from most threats and the cold would be less of an obstacle with fire, but Gaius knew the slaves wouldn't be kept nearly as warm. And the spiders, Iron or not, weren't shy abljy attacking large caravans.

Pratik tried to acknowledge Ash with a nod, but before his chin even made it all the way down the man gave him such a savage shove that he stumbled into the edge of the cage, the corner striking his right shoulder hard enough it ached. He sighed. This was going to be a long two weeks.

His passive expression turned into a glare, but he didn't focus it on anyone in particular. Another man opened the cage, and the man behind him didn't even give him an opportunity to climb in himself. Instead, he grabbed his arm and threw him against it, abdomen striking the hard metal at the bottom, before the man grabbed his leg and flipped him up inside, shoulder scraping against the bottom of the cage and foot striking the slave nearest to him.

Pratik twisted and quickly righted himself, glare finding its way to the first man. Half a moment later, the collar yanked against his throat so hard it choked him as the second man savagely yanked him backward by his neck, securing to the edge of the cage. The chain was short. He might be able to lull his head enough to sleep. Maybe. But there would be no movement.

He coughed, then set his jaw and glared even harder at the first man as he locked the cage. The man pointed a finger at him through the cage. "You best watch that attitude, boy!"

Pratik glared at him for a moment longer, glanced back at Ash with the same pissy expression, then focused his eyes on his lap. There was no point in provoking his captors. That would just lead to more beatings and more abuse. He sighed again.

Nasa turned his horse as the gates creaked open, and he rode out. "I'll see you in a month, milord," he said to Gaius.

"Hopefully all goes well," Gaius replied simply, raising a hand in farewell. And hopefully Nasa wouldn't get wise and run away.

When Pratik was thrown in, one or two prisoners looked up in weary curiosity, but most kept their heads down and their postures small. He was chained between two burly men. One looked to be from the Far North, with the fair skin and wild blonde hair and beard to show it. His entire body, which was covered loosely by ragged furs and a rotting shirt and trousers, had patterns of traditional tribal tattoos running up and down its length. He looked to be in his mid twenties.

The other appeared to have Southern ancestry, Austrakan by the looks of his much darker skin and coal-black eyes. His hair, traditionally kept in long braids if he was one of the tribesmen, had been cropped almost to the skull with his jaw clean shaven and his body, more so than some of the other people in the cage, was riddled with scars and burns. This man had been through all this before. He appeared to be in his late forties.

A small child was nestled across from Pratik, eyes downcast. She was perhaps seven or eight and tiny for her age, with close-cut black hair, medium brown skin and green eyes--Rhaebaki Southern heritage. One of the other slaves had given her his furs, so she was well-wrapped but still shivering. The collar around her neck had rubbed the skin of her throat very raw.

"Sorry," Pratik murmured to the slave he'd accidentally kicked while being thrown into the cage. Then he pulled his knees to his chest, wrapped his furs around him as best as he could, and folded his arms over his abdomen, contemplating all of the life choices that had led him to this moment.

The cage lurched forward as it and its counterpart were dragged toward the exit by the wagon horses. Gaius kept his gaze on Pratik until the gate closed behind them, jaw tight.

"Who do you think you are?" a skinny blonde man in the corner of Pratik's cage demanded under his breath.

Pratik glanced up to look at him, then back at his own knees. Questions were dangerous. So, he answered simply, "Aren."

"You just let them take you," he hissed. "Why?"

"Why'd you?" he shot back sarcastically. He knew it was a better idea to make friends with the other slaves, but he didn't want to field any more questions than were necessary. And, now that he was actually in the cage, surrounded by people who clearly hadn't bathed in weeks or months, the journalist persona seemed even weaker. He thought quickly for a better explanation if the man kept pressing.

"I fought," the man retorted. "I fought tooth and nail. You just surrendered yourself like some worm!"

"Enough, Janek," a gaunt woman muttered. "Your talk will get us all whipped again."

Pratik kept his eyes on his knees. He'd decided on a story about having a wife and child to provide for so he was willingly selling himself so that they'd have money to survive. But, he wasn't going to offer it if he wasn't pressed. It'd take a lot more than a bitter slave's taunting to make him lose his composure.