The brush made soft swishing sounds as it ran through the horse’s short hair. He smoothed the soft hair down with his free hand after every stroke of the brush. Taking care of the horses every evening was just one of his countless jobs that he was required to do at this farm. For three years he had been the captured slave to a farmer and his son and daughter. He had heavy irons placed around his ankles to prevent any kind of escape. The strokes of the brush as he remembered his capture again.
Ordered to destroy an enemy kingdom, The Undertaker took the best of his bloodthirsty troops and led them into battle. His men fought fiercely, slaying many of the enemy’s soldiers, but reinforcements of the enemy suddenly appeared from nowhere. Greatly outnumbered, Taker gave the order to retreat, but the enemy had quickly surrounded them. As they closed in, Taker saw many of his men fall from their horses, killing themselves instead of dying at the hands of the enemy. He refused to go out in that way. He chose to face his enemy head on, killing as many of them before he was killed. Unfourtionally, he wasn’t killed. He was taken captive and sold into slavery. The moment he arrived at this farm, he was tied to a barn wall and beaten with a harsh leather strap in an attempt to break his fighting spirit. It proved ineffective. That first night, despite his wounds, he excaped from the farm and made it to the city walls before he was recaptured. He was suddenly hit on the head with something hard and the next thing he knew was that he woke up once again tied to the old barn wall. Unbelievable pain was shooting from the entire back of his body. He knew what had happened. They had beat him again and for punishment for running away, the farm owner had rubbed salt into his many wounds that ranged from the base of his neck to halfway down his legs. The farmer had stripped him of his shirt, but scraps of his pants were clinging to the bloody cuts on his legs and strands of his long hair were stuck in the gashes on his back. He could do nothing but stand there with his hands tied above his head, suffering and cursing the man who did this to him. He closed his eyes, planning the torture of the doomed man who caught him. He was so lost in thought in his pain and thought that he never heard the barn door quietly open and close. He didn’t hear the person cautiously walk to him and set a bucket of warm water on the straw covered ground. His eyes snapped open when he felt something soothingly warm carefully wiping the blood from his back. His fighting nature instantly kicked in and he growled a soft warning to whoever was behind him. He could hear the person jump away from him, but returned to him, wiping the blood off of him, but was more alert. He growled again, but the person did not back away, but only continued to wash his back. He acted like a wounded animal throughout the bathing. Not once did he see the person who was behind him or hear the person talk, nor did he make any attempt to talk to the person. He was completely humiliated at his vulnerable position, half-angry that he had been recaptured and half-angry that he wasn’t allowed to take care of his wounds himself. He heard the people drop the rag into the bucket of red water and slowly raise themselves up off the barn floor and make their way to the door. As the person opened the door and stepped out into the cool night air, the Undertaker turned his head to see who was doing this. His slightly unfocused eyes caught the sight of the backside of a girl. The girl wore a faded yellow dress with plain brown shoes. She had brown hair that was pulled back into a bun at the base of her neck. She appeared to be young, but he didn’t think much about her age. He closed his eyes as she disappeared into the dark night, leaving the door open. He closed his eyes as a rush of the cool night air blew in to the humid barn, easing some of the slight pain of his tired body. He opened his eyes at the sound of the door being closed. He slowly turned his head to see the girl once again. Her eyes were cast downward; her movements were timid as she set the buckets of clean warm water down beside him then kneel behind him. He tightened his sore muscles when he felt water on his legs, hoping to scare the girl away. He heard her gasp softly, and thought briefly about kicking her. He was about to do just that when the girl returned to bathing him as soon as she left. He wanted her to leave and tried just about everything to frighten her. In the end, his sore body and weariness of his mind got the best of him, and he only had enough strength left to growl softly. The girl, whom he assumed was a slave girl, silently worked at cleaning the hundreds of cuts. The muscles in his leg tightened quickly when the girl’s fingertips touched his skin in order to pluck out the bits of fabric in the wounds. She froze for only a moment, then continued her work. As she moved up to his back, she carefully removed the thick strands of his hair from the area and tossed them aside. He felt the rag move over him and at the same time felt the embarrassment of being helpless in front of a woman begin to heat in his veins. After what had seemed like an eternity, the girl had finally left. His fury was at a high point. He could have taken care of himself. He would have preferred to suffer than be treated by a mear girl. The farmer did not come to untie him from his position that night. He had let him stay there for a few days, only splashing a bucket of water on him to quench his thirst. He had to admit that the farmer was smart. Had the farmer released him, Taker would have instantly killed him and excaped. When the farmer finally cut him down, he fell to the ground, his legs unable to support him. Heavy chains with sturdy locks were placed on his wrists and ankles and blissful darkness enveloped him as he suddenly passed out.
Copyright 1999
by Lady Serria