It seemed as though eons had passed in the blink of an eye. Leon lay sprawled on the unforgiving cold ground, slowly regaining consciousness as a throbbing pain took siege of his mind. As his senses dulled by the harsh ache, fragmented visions of a boy named "Leon" danced hauntingly through his thoughts.
Vivid were the memories of his father, his hands guiding young Leon's in the art of drawing a hunting bow, the joy of such moments etching a permanent warmth in his heart. The gentle strokes of his mother's hands through his hair lingered as if she were right there, comforting him. He remembered walking down the rustic country roads at dusk, the evening glow nearly tangible, a moment frozen in time.
But those serene images were violently shattered by the harsh reality of blood and steel, the cold glint of a mercenary's sword, the terror mirrored on the boy's face. His mother's desperate pleas, followed by her chilling screams, ignited an infernal blaze of anger and hatred within Leon, overpowering the paralyzing fear.
Yet, such fierce emotions were powerless. The boy was brutally struck down; the last sounds he heard before darkness claimed him were the mercenaries' cruel laughter, echoing mockingly.
Leon's eyes snapped open, the remnants of the nightmare still visible in his bloodshot gaze. As clarity slowly infiltrated his mind, he fought to suppress the alien hatred boiling within. He breathed heavily, his body tense, and noticed the crude shackles binding his wrists. Struggling against them, he managed to prop himself up against a sturdy wooden fence, gaining a better view of his grim surroundings.
He found himself in a large cage, surrounded by many others alike, each filled with people in varying states of distress. Men and women alike bore the marks of suffering; no elderly were to be seen, only the young and the vulnerable. Tattered clothes, caked in dirt and blood, barely covered their bodies, while many bore scars from apparent abuse.
The air was heavy with the quiet sobs of the captives, interspersed with the harsh shouts of mercenaries speaking in a foreign tongue. The faces around him were a mixture of numbness, terror, and deep-seated rage.
It dawned on Leon with a heavy heart that he was no longer free but a captive, a slave in an unknown land. He took a deep, steadying breath, grappling with this harsh new reality. As he exhaled, he sought to calm his troubled mind and untangle the complex web of thoughts swirling within.
"Who am I? Leon or someone else" he pondered aloud, quickly correcting himself, "No. I am Leon."
Despite the vivid memories of this sixteen-year-old boy, Leon's self-awareness pierced through, reclaiming his identity. He was 26, an ordinary office worker with the same name, his life marked by routine and simplicity, parents alive, healthy, no remarkable vices.
As he reconnected with his true self, the headache resurged, blurring the lines between past and present. Rubbing his temples, Leon momentarily set aside his turmoil to observe the mercenary guards outside the cage, trying to glean any information that might help him understand his bleak situation.
Spears, swords, chain mail, iron armor, bows, and crossbows. In the time L ang in Earth, even the most rudimentary nation wouldn't harbor soldiers clad in such medieval garb outside of a festival or theatrical setting. The vivid and vicious tableau lingering in the young boy's memories underscored a grim realization: this was no movie set.
Could it be reincarnation? Or perhaps a transmigration of souls? Had he been thrust back to ancient Europe, or hurled into a bizarre, alternative reality? Puzzling questions danced wildly in his mind, detached from any semblance of reality.
Leon was at a loss. He had no memory of a near miss with a dump truck, nor any recollection of events leading up to his current predicament, his wrists now ensnared by cruel iron shackles. As a man of the 21st century, accustomed to autonomy, the notion of enslavement was intolerable.
Setting aside the enigma of his temporal displacement, he focused on a more immediate concern: escape.
He took a deep breath and began to sift through Leon's memories for anything useful: The Kingdom of Serian, the Church of Saint Sol, the Holy City of Rolandar. The aggressive Kantardar army, notorious for their border skirmishes, had invaded his peaceful life on the outskirts of Rolandar where Leon, a simple hunter's son, had lived before the war.
"You're still alive. I thought you were dead yesterday," a calm voice interrupted his thoughts.
Leon looked up to see a brown-haired youth, likely fifteen or sixteen, whose fair skin suggested a life once removed from the harshness of manual labor, possibly hinting at an affluent past.
"Hey, who are you?" Leon asked, his voice rough and dry.
"It doesn't matter who I am. You should thank that lady, though. If she hadn't been so kind to keep giving you water these last two days, you might not have made it," the boy replied, nodding toward a direction with a stoic expression.
Leon followed his gaze and spotted a woman in her twenties. Despite the wear and tear of captivity, her gentle features and poised demeanor stood out. He felt a profound sense of gratitude.
"Thank you," he managed to say, his voice hoarse but laden with sincere appreciation.
In such dire circumstances, her acts of kindness, tending to someone on the brink of death, were nothing short of heroic.
The woman offered a weary smile and nodded, acknowledging his thanks.
Beside her, a robust young boy eyed Leon with a mix of curiosity and caution, reminiscent of a wary, injured animal.
The boy bore a striking resemblance to the kind woman, sharing about 60% of her features, enough to suggest they were related, possibly siblings. His robust build hinted at a life of physical activity, his skin bronzed from years under the sun. Yet the marks of recent abuse, bruises and swellings from the mercenaries' beatings, were unmistakable.
Leon averted his gaze, not wanting to stir any hostility. He recognized the boy's guarded demeanor was born of protectiveness rather than malice, a natural reaction in their merciless environment.
His eyes then drifted across the others in the cage. Their faces, gaunt and ghostly pale, resembled those of the walking dead, each marked by the brutal touch of captivity. Even the compassionate woman who had tended to him bore the cruel imprints of violence. Leon shuddered at the thought of the horrors she might have endured.
Turning his attention from his fellow captives, Leon examined the cage. Its strong construction dashed any hopes of breaking free from within. Even if escape were possible, the frail and unarmed prisoners stood no chance against the armored mercenaries outside.
With a heavy sigh, Leon resigned himself to waiting, feeling the weight of each slow, torturous minute. The mundane gripes of his previous office life now seemed a distant paradise of freedom and simplicity.
As dusk fell, the gruff voice of a mercenary cut through his thoughts.
"Ah! You Serrian pigs! Get up and eat!"
The clatter of Kantadar mercenaries approaching with sacks disrupted the oppressive silence. They hurled insults in their harsh tongue as they distributed the rations, tossing dry, dust-covered blocks of food into the cages like feed to livestock. Along with the food, they threw in two large leather water bags.
Leon eyed the grayish, crumbly food that tumbled across the cage floor. He quickly realized the portions were insufficient, not even enough for one per prisoner.
While he observed the others' reactions, the dark-skinned boy sprang into action, securing two pieces of the coarse bread and a water bag, then hurried back to his presumed sister.
The rest of the captives quietly collected their share. Remarkably, there was no scramble or dispute, hunger had not yet driven them to desperation, and their weakened spirits dampened any potential conflict.
By the time Leon moved to retrieve some food, it was all gone. He retreated to a corner, settling back with a resigned sigh. Though hunger gnawed at him, it was still bearable.
Thankfully, there was water to share. The water bags made their rounds, and everyone managed to drink their fill. When it was his turn, Leon braced himself against the discomfort of using a mouthpiece others had touched. He tilted the bag and let the water cascade into his mouth, soothing the parched roughness of his throat.
In times of duress, concerns over cleanliness often become a pressing obsession. After taking a deep drink, Leon passed the water bag to the person beside him. His gaze wandered unintentionally towards the brother and sister duo, where he noticed the lady who had cared for him while he was unconscious. She was looking his way, a melancholy smile tinged with apology gracing her features. She hesitated over the dry food her brother had secured for her, clearly troubled by the fact that Leon had not yet eaten.
The woman stood with the intent of sharing her meager ration with Leon, but her brother intercepted her quickly.
"Sister, you didn't eat enough yesterday!" His voice was loud, laden with worry and a hint of reproach, aimed at discouraging her generosity. He was visibly frustrated with her tendency to put others before herself, hence why he had hastily grabbed extra portions.
Leon overheard the conversation clearly, clear enough to know it was intended for him and he raised his hand in a gentle refusal.
"Thank you for your kindness, but I'm not hungry yet," he said, his voice grateful yet firm. He felt it improper to keep accepting the woman's selfless care under her brother's wary eyes.
"I'll give you half. I'm not that hungry," interrupted a voice nearby.
Leon turned to see the fair-skinned youth from earlier approaching him. The boy sat down beside Leon and broke off half of his portion of dry food, offering it to him.
"Uh, thank you," Leon accepted the gesture with a small, grateful smile, taking the food.
"As for the question earlier, my name is Brandon Flarel, from the Flarel family. What's yours?" Brandon asked casually after taking a tentative bite of his own half.
Leon hesitated, his mind weighing the anonymity of his true identity against the need for some connection. Deciding to blend in, he replied, "My name is Leon. I don't have a surname."
Brandon seemed taken aback for a moment. He had noticed Leon's earlier reluctance to share the communal water bag and had assumed he might be another displaced noble, struggling to adjust to their harsh reality.
But now, none of that mattered. Whether born of nobility or common stock, they were all equal here in their bondage, Brandon thought with a wry twist of humor.
With their introductions made, the conversation dwindled, and a heavy silence settled back over them, each lost in their own reflections on their grim circumstances.