Even at his young age, Mozenrath knew, to some, night was its own ordeal altogether. To the select few, night was riddled with un-pleasantries. When the sun left eh people of the world, it left them unguarded, and cruelly too. In some cases, the darkness was a massive, in conquerable womb of fertility, always pulsing, always living, and always producing the people's worst fears.

It materialized them. What did it matter that your fears were illogical or not even physical threats at all? Was reality not what your mind makes it? When it came right down to it, if you saw your demons in the shadows on the wall, then they were there, at least adequately enough.

But to Mozenrath, when he saw the final great heaps of scarlet and rose be swept from the sky, he was at great relief as he straightened his back and subsequently dropped his axe. Night was salvation; night was sanctuary. No hard-eyed oppressors could pursue you there; your back outreached the whip in your own bed. Soon, he knew, as Mam's guards begrudgingly hollered to and fro collecting tools, or more importantly, possible weapons, he could be done for the night. He would filter pass in the several lines the food slaves worked in distributing the last evening meal and water rations. Then it was his luxury to perhaps to sit among the dunes close by.

This was where, by tradition, the hardier men and women chose to dine, laughing and eating to late hours as if they were ignorant of their positions as slaves. But Mozenrath knew he would never join their hardened crowd; he was a child and far too much of his own person to be welcome in their ranks. They constantly reminded him of that.

Besides, he knew he much preferred the comfort, security, and privacy of his own slave shack, a luxury in not having to share with multiple others in regards to his special services to Mam. He knew he should feel guilty, but it was not his sort of boldness to invite another into his bunk, if even to soothe his own conscience.

He was jolted by the girl's monotone as she handed him his bowl and cup, prodding him to move on. His musings had left his mind wander and he had passed to the front of the line without conscious thought. He took his serving hastily, and started down the ridged slope to the permanent dune valley in which all of the slave's quarters lay in giant clusters, maintained by guard posts in between.

He would take his evening meal alone, in silence and repose, as was one of his customs and few comforts. He shook his head in an almost fitful matter. If just wouldn't do to immerse himself too deeply in with the other slaves. If he started to familiarize with the other slaves, work for a common goal of perhaps being bought and generally adapted the tones of those in similar situations, he might loose sight of himself. He might forget that he wasn't like the rest of the slaves; he was different; he was to be saved. It was just a matter of time; he had to keep telling himself that. It was just a matter of time.

The curious way in which the slave's 'homes', if such a flattering word were to be afforded, were set up had a definite purpose, several even. For one, it simply kept the slaves in one place, so if any plans, rebellion or note of unusual discord were to occur, a well placed mole would surely root the trouble makers out. They could be watched, guarded, and kept in lines at all times, while they slept and while they ate.

In another way, being so closely clustered together in their little huts was beneficial to the slaves. Each community among the slave population, built around families and common language ties, supported itself and its members. It was not uncommon, for in stance, for an elderly man or woman inside one of these niches to act as a private doctor or healer. It was a moot point that Mam, officially anyway, had enlisted a small group of her own medical personnel. There was gratification, however, to an injured or sick slave ingoing to someone you did not fear, but trusted, and in that way, they were preferred.

Additionally, there was a sense of large scale collectivism, in which every person bent under the thumb of Mam's rule was included. Naturally, this could not be said for everyone. You were apt to find select individuals with an animalistic sense of self-survival, and that was all they concerned themselves with. They were usually left to themselves, and one was not surprised to find that a slave killed in the night for attempting a daring escape was of that sort of mindset.

Generally, though, you looked out for your neighbor in a genial understanding everyone was in this together. What you had to bear, the same difficulties, trials, and tribulations, you were certain the person next to you was required too as well. Sympathy was well abound, and getting along didn't have to be a solo endeavor.

It was true, Mozenrath had made friends with Piris, and for that he was grateful. To be quite honest, he wasn't sure that, if he had to go in this alone, without the simple feeling of compassion from Piris and her family, he could handle it. He knew he should return her kindness, somehow. It was simple courtesy. She was in her own sort of trouble, as it were. She was pregnant, yet again.

Mozenrath sighed. He could not understand, for the life of him, why Piris and her husband, Rasferiet, a homely, quiet man who was generally good natured, could keep bringing children into this sort of life. He had already learned of Piris's sorrow; she had seen many of children sold away, while she herself was always passed over. The time normally set aside by the gentleness of nature for a mother to enjoy taking care of her children was not guaranteed on Mam's slave compound. Piris would try to forget, try to bury her loss in the business of her daily duties and taking care of her remaining children, but the pain remained. She knew nothing of her children's fate. Were they taken care of? Did they go to good homes? Were they even still alive?

So it confused Mozenrath why Piris and Rasferiet would continue to consciously bear children, knowing what fate they would come to. He supposed it wasn't his place to know; he wasn't a mother or father. However, Piris had his sympathy, though she certainly didn't need it. She was a world class mother who had the hardy body and spirit to carry her unborn children like an ox. Her pace did not slow, and she asked for no free rides.

But what could Mozenrath do for her?

He came upon the door to his own bedroom, and looked about, the absolute quiet and inactivity in the darkness between the shacks confirming that he had taken his time getting here and everyone else had turned in. He sighed and let himself in, the wooden door creaking feebly. He shut it behind him gently, not wanting to harass already weak foundations, and looked about his little home with apathy.

There was a flat, mottled cot against the far away, a pile of clothes and personal items in the sand next to the door. He had risen a month ago from the mattress in disorientation, a little before dawn, realizing another birthday had come upon him unnoticed. According to the scratches he kept upon the wall to mark each passing day, he had been on Mam's compound for a little over/under two years, and should be about eleven.

Eleven. The number staggered him, not because of his growth in years, but the comparison to how he felt. He was sure, that inside, he was much, much older. He felt it in any case.

He sat down to eat mechanically. He knew he should give some allowance for time to find him, but still, where were his parents? How long would he spend here?

A harsh, impatient knock on the door disrupted his thoughts. Who would be calling at this hour? Who would have the energy to spare? Suspiciously, he set his dinner things inside, licking his parched lips, fingers clenching instinctively. There wasn't much else he could do; the person was still rapping on his door, and he'd have to see who it was eventually. He braced his right instep against the door, knowing he may have to force it close if his visitor became overly insistent to come in.

That precaution, however, proved to be a futile one for as soon as he opened the door the slightest of cracks, a quick, strong hand reached in and snatched a handful of his shirt, snatching him back out again in a blur of motion and force. He was slammed back up against the outside of his own shack, and fear made his body stiffen as the wind was knocked out of him. He had only seen a muddled shadow of a face in the darkness of his doorway, but it was enough for him to recognize who it belonged to.

It was Akron who held him by the throat.