“Even slave children, incidentally, are seldom abused or treated poorly, and are given much freedom, until they reach their young adulthood. It is then, of course, that they are taught that they are slaves. Men come, and the young male is tied and taken to the market.” 

Beasts of Gor , Page 155

 

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The slave stands statue-like as if rooted with indecision.  Tiny pupils flicker about, darting nervous flies on the back of a sleen, flitting but never resting. Uncertain glances hint at some doubt that cages his thoughts as utterly as iron bars imprison men.  "They will come for me soon.  I heard a whisper. Tomorrow, I will be a slave."  

 

The slave staggers under the tremendous enormity of what will happen, knees buckle, like some overburned bosk, and jar against uncaring, unmoved tiles with all the grace of a drunk.  "What can I do?  Where can I run?  Who would lift a sword to save me?  I have no caste to protect me."  He reaches out with uncalloused hands as if pleading with the Priest Kings to amend this injustice. 

 

"If only..." Twin pools of desperation harden into granite.  "If only I was a warrior!" he gasps. Fingers close around an imagined blade, the other powerful wrist raises, drawing a shield of false hope across his torso.  The hairs on the backs of his arms stand on end; he moves with the purpose of one of the Scarlet-Clad heroes now, arms cutting and thrusting, parrying and blocking. Fury and fire he focuses frighteningly into a flurry of blows, railing against his fears.   

/me howls wordlessly in frustration and alarm grips him, clutching a rib in real pain.  "Perhaps not a Warrior then... if only..." he heaves, the twin agonies of defeat and injury briefly writ large in his countenance.  The slave lifts arms that would soon be bound, a glint of command sparkles in his eyes. Lungs fill audibly as if consuming thalassic air.   

 

 

"If only I had my own ship, sailing glistening Thassa with goods to trade..."   

 

The slave paws invisible objects precariously, more and more quickly yanking and thrusting, desperation in every movement.   A strangled hiss of breath, he sinks to his knees in submission once more. "Until Raiders of Port Kar found me, that is..." he sighs.   “If death is my only alternative, I will go to the Cities of Dust one of the Free!”  Hands curl into hammers made of knuckles. A mask of fury turns towards the world.

 

“A child of a slave is a slave… I was doomed… I was doomed from birth.” As if to tear down the heavens that so condemned him to his ignoble fate, he claws skyward desperately.  "Why have you done this to me?” he chokes.  Dual pools of Black Wine glitter with awareness of his fate, innocence dropped like scales from his sight.  “No longer am I a child.  Fantasies cannot protect me…”  

 

The slave slumps, as if it were his natural place,  back to his knees. Staggering to his feet with great effort, clutching at himself, he rips aside his illusions, tearing them away from his body and discarding them on the unsympathetic tiles, to shatter under the feet of a man condemned to be forever an animal; he was the many-banded hith, casting off its skin to be born again.

 

The slave starts, almost as though he feels the ominous drumbeat of footsteps. Features writhe into a mask of acceptance, as he slowly relaxes his tortured frame, kneeling,  awaiting the fate of all born of slaves.  Jaw clenched, he grinds his teeth against the shame, assuming his lot grudgingly.  “To die without a Home Stone to remember me?  Or to be remembered a slave? Come the morning, I will be …”

 

 “La kajirus”