A/N: This story will brush up on a few mature themes, such as slavery and forced marriage. I will try to keep them as mild as possible, but please be advised if you are sensitive to these. There will also be some mild violence, but otherwise nothing explicit.

This is in essence a reimagining of 'The Horse and His Boy,' and although it will keep many of the canon events, it completely disregards the canon timeline.

Happy reading!

Everywhere the years bring to all enough of sin and sorrow; but in slavery the very dawn of life is darkened by these shadows.

- Harriet Ann Jacobs

Forty Crescents

The journey to Andradin's home was not pleasant.

The night before was blurry. Shasta remembered sneaking out to make his escape with Bree. Then there was scuffling and pain in the back of his head. He heard Arsheesh cursing at him just before darkness took him, sure of only one thing. He had failed.

In the morning, Shasta had woken up with his head still ringing from the blow Arsheesh had dealt him. He panicked as the memories of the previous night came flooding into his mind and jumped to his feet.

Or at least, he tried to jump to his feet.

He gave a sharp cry as he fell backwards, not having realized his arms and legs were bound tightly with rope. He landed painfully on his side and was sure that he had bruised his hip in the fall. Ignoring the pain, he struggled for a few minutes, the impending danger clear in his mind. They had tied him up to prevent him escaping!

Craning his head, he was able to look out the small slit in the wall that acted as a window. The pale, grey light of early morning was starting to sneak in. He didn't have much time! He had to get to Bree!

He tried biting at the ropes, but they were thick and the knot too strong for him to work it out on his own. His wrists were starting to chafe as he struggled, rubbing painfully against the rough texture of the ropes. Shasta had been a fisherman all his life and he knew a well-tied knot when he saw one. This was perhaps one of Arsheesh's crowning glories.

He heard movement in the house.

Miserably, Shasta stopped struggling and listened, knowing that any moment Arsheesh and the Tarkaan would be coming for him. It was too late. Even if he somehow managed to free himself from the ropes before they came to get him, there was no way he would be able to get to Bree and away in time.

His heart began to sink and real fear rose up in his throat, like bile.

He tried to calm down; telling himself that maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe the Tarkaan would take pity on him, or grow to like him.

But the moment Arsheesh and the Tarkaan entered the room and he saw the cold, harsh look in his eyes, Shasta knew his hopes were pointless.

"Ready the boy," the Tarkaan said, his voice clipped, "We'll be leaving soon. Keep his hands bound. There will be no repeat of last night."

"Yes, yes, of course," Arsheesh was hasty to say, bowing his old head to his guest, "I'll do so immediately."

The Tarkaan nodded, giving Shasta one last cold look and marched out again.

Arsheesh gave Shasta another clout to the ear and scolded him for embarrassing his poor father, who had raised him, fed him and nurtured him for twelve years.

Shasta, tears burning in his eyes from being hit, managed to glare at Arsheesh.

"You are not my father," he said quietly, defiantly.

Arsheesh hit him again.

It didn't hurt as much this time. Shasta looked at the man he had called his father all his life and felt…nothing. He found this odd. He should feel betrayed, angry, sad…something. But it was like Arsheesh's last blow had severed whatever regard he had felt for the fisherman. Instead, Shasta felt oddly calm and somewhat detached from the scene.

For much of his life, he had tried to win this man's love. For a time, he had even deluded himself into thinking he had it. But if Arsheesh felt anything for Shasta, he wouldn't be doing this to him.

"You will obey your master well," Arsheesh was saying while he worked to free Shasta's legs, "His favour is the only thing you will live for."

He spoke the words shortly, his old voice as clipped as ever. Shasta wriggled his bare feet as the ropes fell away, saying nothing and refusing to look at the fisherman. The feeling of detachment was still there. He could feel the fear in his own mind still, but it was like a curtain had been drawn, blocking it from view. Arsheesh hauled him roughly to his feet and made him walk, gripping his arm in a painful pinch. Shasta had to bite down on a cry as the bony fingers dug into his flesh.

When they got outside, Bree was saddled and the Tarkaan was already mounted. His red beard looked darker in the dim light of morning and he was fingering his sword as he watched Shasta and Arsheesh. Bree pawed the ground, shaking his man out anxiously. The dapple-grey stallion turned sad eyes on Shasta. As Arsheesh and the Tarkaan spoke briefly, the fisherman making scraping bows and accepting a bag of money, Shasta shot the horse a small, brave smile.

I'll be alright, he tried to tell him, its okay.

Then he felt a tug on his wrists and realized the Tarkaan was going to lead him by a rope the entire journey. His smile faded immediately and trepidation filled him. Bree's words the previous night rang in his head.

You'd better be lying dead tonight than go to be a human slave in his house tomorrow.

As he was led along, walking behind Bree and the Tarkaan, he shot one look back to the small hovel he had spent his entire life in. Arsheesh had his back to them now and the sun had risen completely, shining brightly over the ocean. Feeling another tug, Shasta was forced to turn his face away from the sunlight and follow.

~:~

For days they traveled, Shasta struggling to keep up with the pace. Bree seemed to be trying to help him, slowing down as much as he could before the Tarkaan whipped his hide with a long, leather wrapped stick. Once, he struck the stallion so hard that blood was drawn on his rear. But Bree maintained his slower walk.

"Useless animal!" Shasta heard the Tarkaan snarl, "What has tired you so?"

And Shasta became afraid for Bree. What if the Tarkan decided to hurt Bree more, or get rid of him because he was not acting as he should? Shasta knew little of horses, but he suspected they were not kept long if they couldn't earn their keep. What if Bree's kindness had unintended consequences?

It was on their third night of travel that Shasta had a chance to talk with Bree again. The Tarkaan had led them to an inn and tied Shasta up in Bree's stall. His feet were left unbound; though they hurt so much Shasta wasn't sure he would be able to escape on them if he tried. The end of the rope was tied to a metal ring in the wall, usually used for tethering horses. There was enough length for him to move around the stall a bit, but not by much. The Tarkaan provided the boy with some stale bread for his supper and unceremoniously poured water for him to drink. Shasta cupped his still bound hands and tried to drink as much as he could before the Tarkaan left him there with strict orders to the stable hand not to let him escape. He was still thirsty and the bread hardly seemed to fill the void in his stomach, but most of all, Shasta was exhausted. He settled into the straw though and waited for a change to talk to Bree. Before long, the stable doors were locked and bolted and the lights put out.

"Shasta? Shasta are you alright?"

In the dim light cast by the moon, Shasta could just make out the massive shape of Bree's head.

"Yes," he croaked, his mouth still dry and began to express his fears to Bree. The horse listened in silence and shook his head violently.

"The cruel, heartless man!" Bree cut him off, "Never you mind about me, I've dealt with this for years and I can deal with it some more. I shan't let you suffer anymore than I have to. Oh Shasta, I am sorry it turned out like this."

"It's alright," the boy said bravely, too tired to do anything more, "It's not your fault. Will you tell me of Narnia again, Bree? I should very much like to hear it."

He felt Bree blow into his face and come to lay next him, letting the boy use him for a pillow. Shasta was grateful. He had been sleeping on the ground and feeling the chill of the night. Bree was soft and warm. He closed his eyes as Bree started to tell him about mountains and talking beasts. Before he drifted off to sleep, he thought he heard a voice that was not Bree's. It seemed to fill his mind for a moment, like a long forgotten memory. A sad and sweet memory, the kind that would bring a tear to the eye, for it sounded so mournful, but so filled with love.

"Rest, little one."

~:~

Bree nuzzled the sleeping boy gently. It was an hour before dawn and the stable hand was back to feed and water the horses. He knew his master would be along later, no doubt having taken drink in the inn as he was wont to do.

He watched Shasta's face and let out a very strained sigh.

Shasta might not believe it was his fault, but Bree certainly did. Had he been quicker or quieter, perhaps they would have managed to escape. But now the boy was a slave, just like him. This poor, simple little boy who had never been nurtured, never had a kind word thrown his way, but still smiled bravely and was concerned with Bree's wellbeing.

He humbled the warhorse.

Bree took stock of the boy's bare feet, now scuffed and blistered from all the running he had done the past few days. There were fresh rips in his already ragged clothes and Bree could see bloodstains from all the times he had fallen and scrapped himself in the dirt. Worse were the bruises. Some caused by those same falls, the others from hits the Tarkaan had dealt the boy for slowing him down. His left cheek had a particularly nasty one, all yellow and green. On his pale face, it looked even worse. There were dark circles under his eyes and his lips were chapped badly too. Bree knew the boy was exhausted and dehydrated.

And he knew this was being done as punishment for his small act of rebellion.

This was how they broke down a spirit. This was how they turned men into slaves.

Bree knew because this was how they broke horses sometimes, especially the most willful. They exhausted them, starved them and dehydrated them. They took everything away and made them dependent on their new masters for those things that sustained life. If the horse didn't break, he died.

Bree sometimes wondered if that wasn't a mercy.

He had been taken as a foal and had become too afraid to disobey his supposed masters. Unlike his dumb brethren, Bree had watched and learned. He had adapted quickly. He had assimilated in the hopes that they would never discover the secret of his origin. For what fate awaited him then? To be sold as a piece of entertainment? Killed for being some kind of unholy beast? He couldn't take the chance.

With all the battles he had seen in his life, Bree had never considered himself a coward before. He had dreamt of escape, but knew a different hand would only take him if he tried. So he never tried, the fear of failing too great. Even with this boy on his back, escape was a great gamble. But when Bree had seen the young soul, something inside had urged him. Something had told him he had to try this time.

And now this.

He did not want to watch this young foal be broken. He did not want to see that brave smile fade away. Perhaps he was a coward for not rebelling long ago, but he would become braver. For this boy, he would become braver.

"Don't let them break your spirit, Shasta," he pleaded in a quiet murmur, "Please."

A sharp, metal clang rang through the stable, making Shasta's eyes snap open. A bleary, green gaze turned to Bree, clearly still trapped somewhere between wakefulness and sleep.

"Its just the stable hand," the horse whispered, "I won't be able to speak to you for much longer. We're only another day away from Anradin's home, can you hold on that long?"

Shasta nodded, managing to sit up.

"Good," Bree noticed the boy was licking his cracked lips, "Now, before the stable hand comes. Can you make it to the water trough? You need to drink something at least."

Shasta nodded, but it took a few gentle pushes from Bree and some struggling on his part to make it to the trough. When he did, the boy practically dumped his whole blonde head into the water, drinking greedily. Bree watched, ready to fetch him out if he did not resurface soon.

Shasta's head suddenly bopped out and he threw up at the side, coughing and crying. Bree moved forward immediately.

"Easy, easy," he tried to calm the boy down softly, "You'll be alright, just take it slower."

Shasta calmed down after a few minutes and nodded, tears still streaming down his face. He did as he was told and used his cupped hands to scoop out more water and drink what he could. When he was done, he turned to Bree.

"I feel sick," he admitted softly and sniffed, "I'm scared Bree."

Bree's heart ached for the young foal and he gently nudged the boy with his nose, no longer saying anything for fear of the stable hand now being too close. Shasta buried his face in Bree's neck and started crying, his bound hands reaching up to grip at Bree's fur. The horse didn't mind, knowing the boy needed comfort above all else.

"I dreamt of Narnia," Shasta hiccupped, "We'll go there someday, won't we Bree?"

The horse broke his silence, dropping his voice to the level bellow a whisper and hoped Shasta could hear.

"Yes," he promised, "To Narnia and the north."

He prayed for it, by the Lion he prayed for it.

They were brought back to reality by a sharp, irritable voice.

"I won't have you manhandling her!" the voice was young and female, "Now saddle her correctly, my father and I are leaving within the hour."

Shasta looked up curiously and before Bree could stop him, had limped over to the stall door, clearly still working out stiff muscles. He peaked his head over the door to see who was ordering things about so early. Bree trotted over and did the same.

A young, pointy faced girl stood there with her arms crossed as she bossed around the man tending to her horse, a gentle looking bay mare. Suddenly, there was the sound of a cat's strangled meow from somewhere near Bree's stall, though he couldn't see where the offending creature was. Shasta gave a start and banged his knee against the wooden door, hissing with pain. The noises made the girl jerk round, drawing her attention to them.

"You there!" she exclaimed, "What are you looking at? Who are you?"

Bree and Shasta jerked back out of sight, but it was too late. The girl had come over to investigate.

"Whatever are you doing in there? And your face! How dirty!" she asked, poking her pointy face over the stall door. Her gaze fell on Shasta's bound hands and her mouth opened in understanding, "Oh I see, you're a slave."

"Don't call me that!" Shasta snapped, surprising Bree a little with his vehemence.

The girl glared at him, looking down her nose.

"And why ever not?" she said imperiously, "That's what you are, isn't it?"

"What would you know?" Shasta ground out, clearly not liking her in the slightest, "You're just a girl!"

"And you're just a stupid, rude boy! I am a Tarkeena," the girl snapped back, her pointy face becoming pinched, "A slave should know how to address me better! I should have your master beat you for insolence!"

Bree pushed down his own temper, not sure how best to interfere. He considered simply moving between Shasta and the Tarkeena, but the boy spoilt this plan by limping his way right up to the girl and facing her over the stall door.

"I am a person!" he growled.

This seemed to surprise the Tarkeena, for her dark eyes went wide suddenly and she stared at him in silence. She seemed to look at Shasta properly then, scanning over him like a falcon on its prey.

"You're crying," she said calmly.

Bree could only see the back of Shasta's head from where he was, but he didn't doubt the girl's observation. Shasta's ears had gone red and he was trying to wipe his face on his torn sleeve.

"I am not!" he cried stubbornly.

The Tarkeena didn't say anything, only began to rummage in the small bag she had hanging from her side. She took something out and reached over the stall door.

"Here," the girl said curtly, "You can eat this I suppose."

She thrust a small, cloth wrapped parcel into his hands. He stared at her, dumbfounded.

"It's just some dried meat and fruit," she said, suddenly looking uncomfortably, "I was going to have it as a snack on the road, but you look like you're about to try some of that horse's straw!"

"But-but-" Shasta stammered, looking down at it.

"It's just a snack," she sniffed, "And you can use the cloth to wipe your face when you're done."

Without another word, she turned away from him.

"I-" Shasta shook himself and called, "Thank you!"

She didn't give any indication that she had heard him. It didn't matter, as Bree silently thanked the young Tarkeena for her kindness, he cheered at the small smile on Shasta's face.

~:~

The rest of the journey passed in much the same way.

The Tarkeena's food turned out to be a blessing, for Anradin did not feed Shasta the entire day. He had eaten half of the dry goods in the morning before the Tarkaan had come, waiting until he was asleep to eat a little more. Every muscle in Shasta's body ached and his feet felt like they were going to fall off. He'd been slow to start today and had been whipped across the face. He could still feel the sting from where his skin had split.

It took another day before they reached Anradin's home.

Even in his exhaustion, Shasta found himself gaping at the sight. It was a palace, surely! They walked up a dusty path, olive trees planted in groves on either side. He could see men working around them, picking the small fruits from low laying boughs and tossing them into sacks. They fell to the ground as Anradin passed, bowing to their master. Ahead, Shasta caught a glimpse of high, white stonewalls and could hear the rush of water. A river, perhaps.

There were people around, some dressed in white and others in brown tunics. Shasta flinched at the cowed, fearful expressions on their faces. He was led through to the stables, where Anradin barked instructions to scurrying servants and Shasta found himself being taken away. Away from Bree. They freed his hands and stripped him of everything he wore. His old clothes and the bit of cloth the food from the Tarkeena had been wrapped in were all taken away and burned. Buckets of cold water were thrown over Shasta and he was scrubbed from head to foot. One of the men went about looking at his wounds and applying a stinging medicine to them. Shasta gasped and shivered, completely humiliated by the whole experience.

He was given clothes to wear. Like the other slaves, this consisted of a pair of slacks and a long-sleeved shirt. They were loose and made from plain, brown linen. It was probably the finest thing Shasta had ever worn, he realized with no small sense of irony.

They gave him a pair of leather bound sandals too, which felt odd on feet that had gone barefoot most of their lives.

They cut his hair short, slicing off the blonde curls with a knife. When Shasta reached up to feel, he found only an inch or so of growth had been left.

The slice on his cheek from Anradin's whip stung the worst. The man applying salve had taken one look at it and shaken his head.

"That'll scar," he told Shasta gruffly, "No helping it."

Shasta just shrugged, that was the least of his worries.

He tried not to flinch when the man, a Calormene servant named Abdar, had to stitch up the wound. He was tall, willowy, with a greying beard, and tired looking brown eyes. He wore a white turban and had a walking stick set at his side. When he spoke, his voice slurred every other word.

Shasta eyes were darting around, trying to take everything in. His body felt hot and ashamed, wanting nothing more than to hang his head or start crying again. Abdar was explaining what behavior would be expected from him.

"How old are you?" he asked, his tone crisp.

"Twelve," Shasta answered quietly.

Abdar nodded, his lips becoming slightly pinched.

"You'll start work in the kitchens or the stables for now," he said, "Doing errands, cleaning, that sort of thing. When you're a bit older, the Tarkhan will decide where to put you. If you're well behaved and biddable, you might stay in the household. If you make trouble, you'll be sent to work out in the fields. You don't want that, understand?"

It was a warning and Shasta could only nod, too afraid to do anything else.

"Never look the Tarkaan in the eyes, don't speak unless you're spoken to and obey immediately," Abdar continued, "You'll never leave the grounds on your own or without permission. If you're working in the household, keep yourself clean and presentable at all times. Don't get in anyone's way or make trouble. You bow when a Tarkaan or a Tarkeena enters a room and keep your head down until you're needed. Your life is not your own anymore. If you want to live well here, you must work hard and be obedient. Is that clear?"

Shasta had to lick his lips before answering. The more Abdar spoke, the lower he felt. Tears stung his eyes and threatened to fall.

"Y-yes," he managed, throat oddly tight.

Abdar's face softened a little and he gave Shasta a pat on the shoulder.

"You'll be fine, lad," he said quietly, "Now go, someone will see you fed."

Shasta nodded quickly and left the older man, wondering if he really would be.

A thin, mean looking woman from the kitchen gave him some bread and a bowl of stew. Shasta practically gulped down the meal, having barely eaten the past few days. After he had eaten, he was taken to back to Anradin to be looked over.

The red bearded Calormene was freshly dressed and smelled strongly of scented oils. As he stepped closer, the scent tickled Shasta's nose, making him want to sneeze. He held very still though, his stomach twisting in knots of fear.

"Now, what to do with you," Anradin said, looking him over, "You're paler under all that dirt. The fairest barbarian I've seen in a long time."

Shasta bit the inside of his cheeks to stop from saying anything. He had learned on their trip together that the slightest utterance of sound was enough to bring the Tarkaan's wrath on him. He kept his eyes downcast as Abdar had said and tried not to flinch when Anradin touched his face.

"So you've finally learned your place, dog," Anradin sounded amused, running his fingers to the cut on Shasta's cheek and pressing down, hard, "I'll keep reminding you of it, lest you forget again."

Shasta clenched his teeth and tried not cry out as a flash of pain seared from the spot. Tears stung his eyes, but he still didn't move.

Eventually, after what seemed an age, the pressure was removed. His check throbbed and he could feel the warm trickle of blood gliding down his face. He dared not reach up though; he didn't even look to see if Anradin had blood on his fingers now.

"My horse seemed to like you," the Tarkaan said, sounding thoughtful, "Perhaps you have a natural affinity for them. Can you ride?"

Shasta shook his head.

"A pity," the Tarkaan mused, "I should have liked to see a barbarian on a horse. Perhaps I shall give you a mule to ride and have you trained like the jesters at Tashban."

Shasta didn't know what a 'jester' was, but he didn't like the sound of it, especially in the mocking way the Tarkaan spoke.

"Hmm, yes!" the Tarkaan gave a laugh, seeming pleased by the idea, "A barbarian made to do tricks and act the fool. It would amuse me greatly!"

The laughter died down and Anradin started to talk again. He told Shasta that, for now, he would be sent to work in the stables. Shasta felt relieved, hoping at least that he would be close to Bree. Before he was dismissed though, Anradin had one last thing to say. One last blow to cow his barbarian slave boy.

"I paid a pretty fortune for you boy," the Tarkaan sneered, "Especially to that fisherman scum! Forty crescents. And I'll have my worth out of you, if I have to beat it out! You are mine now, my dog."

He boxed Shasta on the ear once and strode away.

That night, in the dark, lying on a hard mat and surrounded by several other bodies, Shasta wept. The pain of the day and the reality of his situation setting in. He had been sold. Like a fish at the market, he had been exchanged for a few pieces of coin.

Forty crescents.

The cost of his life.