'At this hour, mom would have finished preparing dinner and I would already be down preparing the table' Alpheo thought as he watched the sun slowly approaching his resting place.
Memories flooded his mind, each one a precious fragment of a life he left behind 17 years ago. Memories of another world. But there was one memory that haunted him above all else, one that he couldn't shake no matter how hard he tried.
He was sitting at the dinner table, surrounded by his family. He sat between his brothers. Across from him sat his parents, smiling and happy as they always were. And at the head of the table stood his beloved grandfather, a kind and gentle man whose face had become a blur in Alpheo's mind.
The large, wooden table was adorned with an abundance of delicacies , succulent cuts of meat, freshly baked bread , steaming plates of pasta, and creamy mashed potatoes dripping with melted butter. It must have been a special occasion, but Alpheo couldn't recall which one. In fact, he struggled to remember any details about that night. The faces around him were familiar yet unrecognizable, like ghosts from a past life that he could never fully grasp again. Their expressions were blurred and their voices muffled, as if they were speaking through a thick fog.
But one thing he would always remember was the food served on that table. Did that make him a bad son? Was it wrong for him to only remember the food and not the faces or voices of those who brought him into this world? His first parents had showered him with love, and his second ones had shown nothing but hate. How could any parent worth being called such sell their own child into slavery?
As he drifted into sleep, battered and hungered from a long day of labor under his cruel master, he would dream of revenge. He imagined breaking free from his bonds, escaping into the night and finding his way back to his villages. In his dreams, he set fire to his old house, letting the flames consume the memories of his past life. But as dawn approached and the pain of his wounds jolted him awake, he faced the harsh reality that vengeance was not an option for someone like him.
Suddendly he jolted as he heard the usual shout accompaning dawn ''SPEED UP!EACH TO HIS CELL!'' It was always the same voice that shouted that , it was that old bastard of Menicus , he was the overseer of the slave and it seemed like he took pleasure in that , as there was nothing he loved more than to search for an excuse to beat them with a stick.
He would not give him a reason to do that though. Quickly and silently Alpheo walked toward his usual cell , his head lowered as to avoid locking gaze with Menicus.
Soon he reached his cell, calling it like that was improper though, as more than a cell , they were four sticks linked together with rope.
A man could probably break free from it with a blade, yet who would be so stupid to do that?After all the moment they walk out of that cell, someone on the watch would certainly see him.
During his early years in the army there was someone so dumb to try that , the first time he watched someone try that was also the time he swore to never try it. He was a kid , small, filled with life and most importantly silent , he never talked to nobody ,no matterthe circumstance , maybe his tongue was cut off.... He never heard him say so much as a word, though he screamed a lot when they broke his knees and left him on the ground to rot.
The sound of the wood hitting wood, reverbarated from behind , and sure enough he was inside that cell, it was rather small and the fact that they were in four to share it ,make it even more crumped. As much as he hated inhaling their foul smell, Alpheo actually liked this moment of the day where he could finally have a proper conversation without fear of being hit.
'Apparently nothing brings people closer than pain' Alpheo thought as he turned towards his three companions, Jarza, Clio, and Egil. There were others he befriended, some had died during these four years, though others instead slept in other cells.
"Another day in this hellhole wasted," Alpheo muttered as he gazed at his comrade
"Though the night is certainly to my liking with your company," he muttered with a small smile as he leaned against one of the wood bars .
Of all of them, Alpheo was the youngest, but he liked to think he was also the quickest and most agile. And while he may not have been the strongest, he prided himself on being the brains of their small group.
"Was today a successful catch?" A deep and gruff voice asked, cutting through the stillness of the room.
The owner of that voice was Jarza, the oldest among them. Time had etched lines into his face, but he carried himself with a proud posture that belied his age. It was said that Arlanians were masters at hiding their years, and Jarza was no exception .
As an Arlanian himself, it could be said that he had returned to his homeland, albeit in a much different position . But none of the three men in the room dared make such a joke. After all, why would they mock someone's shit , when they were rolling in it?
Like most low-born Arlanians, Jarza had dark-brown skin that glistened in the dim light of the room. He was completely bald, save for a patch of scruffy hair growing on one side of his face. It gave him the appearance of a dirty egg, or perhaps more fittingly, a chocolate truffle left out in the sun too long.
He always claimed to have lost count of his age, but he knew deep down that he was well over forty. Despite his many years and countless battles fought, he remained a resilient bastard, refusing to go down without a fight. In his youth, he had been a formidable mercenary, Alpheo was certain that if he was to fight against him in battle, he would certainly piss his pants, he was no coward though , it was just that Farza was too scary to be around.
Four years ago, his luck had taken a turn for the worse when he fell into slavery.
The ironic twist was that it wasn't an enemy's capture that landed him in this dire situation. Instead, it was his own mounting debt that sealed his fate. No matter how hard he tried to escape the cities and find new companies to serve before his creditors came knocking, they always managed to catch up with him.
And on one fateful day, luck seemed to have abandoned him completely. As he was caught and hauled away to be sold as a slave, as his pockets were as empty as his sense of humor. His strong and muscular physique fetched a decent price at the auction - eight silverii, to be exact. Despite his current state, traces of his past strength and constitution could still be seen beneath the layer of exhaustion and defeat.