Many thanks to everyone who has taken the time to review- it really means a lot, and I know I keep saying this, but your feedback really does give me encouragement to keep writing.

DAMAGED

CHAPTER 6

It had been four days since the stranger was brought to the castle, four days in which she'd cared for him, cleaned his wounds, spent long hours late into the night mopping his brow while in the grip of fever, but still he lay unconscious.

For a time, she'd feared he would not survive, but eventually the angry wounds that criss-crossed his chest started to heal, and the fever that threatened his life, had only just broken the previous day. Yet still he stayed silent, unmoving, almost like one of the Master's tall marble statues lining the hall…and in her eyes just as beautiful.

Streya was nearly fifteen, a woman now, and knew it would soon be time for her joining. It was no secret that her Master favoured Durand, Chamberlain Hamlane's assistant, as a suitable match, and while the tall blonde man was quite good looking she supposed, she had always favoured dark hair. Besides, he was only a mere boy compared to the man lying before her.

Even with his burnt, swollen face, John was handsome. He had such strong defined features, yet they were kind. He looked so different from the arrogant boys who teased her with their lewd remarks, stealing the supplies from her basket, and bumping into her in the hall. Marella, her best friend, had smiled when she'd complained about it, telling her it was just their way to grab her attention, for a pretty girl ready to settle down was always in demand.

Before now, Streya had never really thought about her looks, but her father once told her she resembled her mother. She too had been slim with light brown hair, though mother's was straight, where as hers curled in waves around her shoulders. Her father also said they shared the same sunny disposition and eyes - bright blue, the colour of violets. Much to her regret, Streya had never known the woman who gave her life, as the Ancestors had taken her soon after she entered the world.

Now, with her father passed away this last summer, she was on her own. Streya would have liked some memento of her beloved parents, a picture to look upon when she woke in the morning and last thing at night before she closed her eyes. Slaves, though, were not worthy of such expense, so she along with the others was identified by number and position alone…housemaid. Therefore, sadly, she would never see her father's face again, and would never find out if what he'd said about mother was true, or just the treasured recollection of a man in love.

As she gently bathed the healing wounds and wiped the last traces of sweat from his handsome face, Streya longed for John to awake. She smiled as she remembered the stir he'd caused when he'd arrived, Madam Tresin becoming quite cross at the fuss they'd made, with all of the housemaids competing for the chance to tend him. In the end, her irate mistress finally deciding to end the matter by drawing lots, with the prize unexpectedly won by her.

It was tiring work coping with both her own duties and caring for the sick man. Yet despite her exhaustion, she wouldn't relinquish the role to anyone. If only he would wake up and open his eyes. Much to her amusement, some of the women had a wager as to what colour they would be. Most thought they would be brown. Marella, had guessed blue, but she was hoping for green…olive green with specks of amber, just like the colour of the forest, and the eyes once belonging to her beloved father.

She wondered if she dare ask the Master to allow her to become joined to this man, since she had saved the life of his newest acquisition. There was no doubt that John would become a worthy addition once he was fully recovered, except according to rumour he was found, not purchased in the market - so was he a slave? The strange tagged metal chain found around his neck would indicate so, although apart from his name and job description - shepherd - it gave no real clues to who owned him. Though, from what Durand had told her, the master had already decided that with his owner nowhere to be found, John would join his household.

A twinge of regret came with the thought, as despite being born into slavery herself, she somehow found it hard to believe John had. Streya knew the feeling didn't make any sense, but there was just something about him. The strong determined line of his jaw hinted he wasn't used to being subservient to any man, and she feared for him, aware the burden of slavery was hard enough for those used to it, but a free man, someone used to choosing their own path, would not easily accept the yoke of servitude.

It wasn't that the Lord Protector was particularly cruel, but he was a proud man that brooked no disobedience, so if John crossed him…Well, she just hoped she was wrong. Yet if he was to stay, Streya now knew that no callow youth would do for her anymore. She wanted a man…him.

ooooOoooo

Someone was humming. It was a pretty voice, young and vaguely familiar. He'd heard it once or twice before, but had thought it was a dream and couldn't place it. Neither could he remember why he hurt so much, his chest heavy, like a weight was pressed against it…a hot, fiery weight rippling across his body, tight, stinging, yet nothing compared to the shaft of pain spiking through his skull.

"Nnnnghnn…" he groaned, then felt a cool damp cloth pressed to his forehead. It felt good, and he savoured the slight relief it brought, but the pain was agonising and he wanted drugs…lots of them, something to ease his misery to a more tolerable level.

"It's time to wake up now and let me see those eyes of yours," the owner of the voice said. It was young, female, and he really wanted to obliged, but dreaded how much worse that would made him feel.

"Come now, John," the voice said, then asked with a hint of uncertainty, "That is your name, isn't it?"

And there it was…he didn't know. Suddenly, he was struggling to breathe, his heart pounding, as he realised he couldn't remember anything, zilch, nadda, nothing …not even his name.

Panicked, he realised he couldn't stay here – wherever here was - because he needed answers, and this girl obviously didn't have them. "Aghh…"

"Please, John," she pleaded, her voice sounding desperate. "Try to calm down, you are badly hurt and must lie still." His eyes flew open to see a young girl no more than sixteen bending over him, her sweet face strained with worry. Then, he watched, puzzled, as a slow smile grew on her face, almost as if she'd found the answer to a long lost secret. "There you are," she said, now beaming widely. "It's finally good to meet you, John. My name is Streya, and it is I who has been caring for you since you arrived."

"How…long?" John flinched as he raked a shaking hand through his hair, his aching muscles protesting even that small movement.

In response, Streya gently took his arm and laid it down by his side, then continued to bathe his face with the cool cloth as she spoke. "The Master found you lying in the desert over four days ago. You were dying, John, as close to death as I've seen anyone. It's a miracle you survived."

"Thanks…for helping me," John replied, but he felt like crap and was too exhausted, too miserable and way too confused to make any small talk. It wasn't that he was ungrateful, and the girl looked harmless enough, but he didn't know her. Nor did he recognise the small, cramped room with the sandstone walls, or even remember how he got hurt.…nothing, everything was a blank until he'd woken up just a moment ago.

"Now I know you must be hungry," Streya announced as she rose from the chair. "So I will get you something to eat, then afterwards something to help with the pain in order that you can rest."

Even the mention of pain relief seemed to make him feel a little better. John knew he was a strong man, or at least thought he was, but everything hurt, and the spikes piercing through his aching head were making it harder to cope with the fact his life was now was a blank slate. A dark void, where he had no clue of where he came from, what kind of kind of life he led…or even what kind of person he was.

Still, Streya seemed like a nice kid, so trying not to disappoint, he forced down a few sips of the tasteless broth before watching her take a green glass bottle and raise it to his lips. "Just a little, John. It won't take away all your pain, but should make it feel a little more bearable."

Whatever it was tasted vile, and while it did provide some relief the kid had been right, as it barely made a dent in his misery. After a while, the pain cranked back up again and John found himself longing for an unknown place, with comfortable beds and drugs that took him into oblivion. Where that was he hadn't a clue, nor did he know what the whole drugs scenario meant – was he was some kind of addict? He hoped not, but why else would he have a memory like that, unless he was used to getting high? Of course, it could also be because he got hurt…a lot. Yet, if that was the case, then why? Did he have a hazardous job - if so what was it? Or if he'd been injured in the past, were his wounds a result of being punished?

More questions just brought more possible answers he didn't like, and John desperately hoped Streya knew something. "Where is this place, Streya?"

The wide smile was back, and John had to admit she was a cute kid. "This is Etraska, where the Master is Lord Protector Garmend," she replied while tucking the blankets firmly round his chin.

John felt his mouth go dry, suddenly afraid of what the answer to the next question would be. "And who am I, Streya?" he asked hesitantly, trying to suppress the note of panic in his voice. "Somehow I've lost my memory, and until you told me, I didn't even know my name."

"Oh, John. I am so sorry – can't you remember anything?" Streya put down the cloth she had been holding, and looked up, visibly upset.

"Nothing…"

"Well, the young Master found you just over four days ago." As Steya began to speak, John noticed her hands twisted nervously on her lap, and her beautiful eyes filled with remorse. "You had been brutally whipped, John, and left to die in the desert," she said, sounding sad. "And there was a chain around your neck, marking you as a slave, so…" John watched as Streya seemed to take a calming breath before she continued, "he decided that as you must have escaped your master, to bring you back here to serve him…"

John was stunned, and for a moment couldn't speak. A slave…he couldn't be. The room started to sway and he felt sick to his stomach. He couldn't take in what Streya had just told him and didn't want to believe it, which he knew was weird, given that he couldn't remember anything of his former life. All the same he refused to accept he was ever a slave…it couldn't be true.

He was confused, frightened and knew zip about his past, but there was something deep within him, something he couldn't quantify or even explain, that told him he wasn't meant to live a meaningless life of servitude… it just wasn't him. He couldn't recall anything, but his gut told him he wasn't the type of guy to accept oppression. It was all wrong, and not who he was - yet what type of man was he?

If he was born into this kind of life, then what made him think he could rebel against the burden of slavery and escape? Besides, even if he managed it, where the hell would he go? He knew nothing, no one, and the very thought he was trapped in a place he didn't know, forced to serve under another man's will, made him panic…he couldn't breathe. His aching chest grew tighter as bile threatened to choke him. Nauseous, his weak muscles trembled then shook uncontrollably, as the enormity of Streya's revelation finally set in.

"John…" Streya called out, her voice filled with alarm. "You must try to calm down," she pleaded, then took his hand in hers, rubbing it gently. "Master Garmend isn't that bad. Provided you do your work well and on time he is fair. Just do as you're told and life needn't be unpleasant."

Unpleasant…just thinking about it was unbearable. His head, already aching, now pounding, the pain intolerable as he squeezed his eyes shut and cupped a trembling hand over his face.

"I'm not supposed to give you too much because it's expensive, but I'll just tell Madam Tresin I spilt some on the floor…"

Streya's anxious voice brought him to his senses, as he withdrew his hand just in time to see her cast a nervous glance at the door before lifting the green bottle once again.

"No, Streya. I will not allow you to get into trouble for me." He grabbed her hand just as she was about to place the bottle to his lips. "It was just a shock that's all." John forced a smile on his face, but knew it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm sure after some rest and time to think about things I'll be fine," he said, but it was a lie.

John knew he could never accept living like this, but was relieved that the smile did its job as the kid started to relax and seemed happier as she went to leave.

"Streya. You called me John. What was my second name?" he asked hopefully, desperate for just one more clue.

"Slaves only have one name, John, as we have no need to be identified any other way," she replied, in a matter of fact tone, without giving any appearance of regret. "Now close your eyes and try not to fret anymore. I'm sure the next time you awake things will not seem so bad."

Streya had answered him without even realising the significance of what she'd just said. John knew though. That one short statement told him their 'master' considered them as mere property, so worthless in fact, he didn't even see the point in gracing them with a second name.

Demoralised and in pain, John could feel sleep pulling him under, and hoped that when he awoke this whole freaking nightmare would be over, and he'd be back home tucked up in his own bed. But in case it wasn't, and he still didn't know where home was, he wanted to learn one last thing before he closed his eyes. "On my chains, Streya. You said it mentioned my name and occupation. What am I?"

Streya paused before replying, her lips twitching, almost as if she found the answer unlikely. "It said you were a shepherd, but Madam Tresin said it had a funny spelling."

"Right…" he replied, but it wasn't. None of this was and John knew then and there, that regardless of the personal cost he couldn't stay here. It wasn't that there was anything wrong with tending sheep, or any other livestock for that matter, but it just wasn't him. He knew it, and so did the girl.

John didn't know what his job was before, but knew it had to have to had some real purpose. Maybe he'd been a doctor saving lives, or even a teacher. Perhaps he was a solider dedicated to protecting the lives of others. Surrounded by the mystery of his past and fear about the future, John was only sure of one thing. He couldn't, wouldn't, spend the remainder of his days as a slave…he would rather die first.

ooooOoooo

In the days that followed, Streya proved to be not just a caring nurse, but also a welcome distraction, her pretty face lighting up the room as she told him about the daily gossip from the slave quarters. She regaled him with tales of the new kitchen maid putting so much yeast in the bread, it exploded with such a bang they thought the castle was under attack, then the more serious matter when the apparently formidable Madam Tresin caught her friend, Marella, kissing one of the groomsmen in the cellar.

John wondered why that was such a big deal – a kiss being just a kiss after all. Then Streya grew serious and gave him an intense look as she told him that when a woman comes of age she is joined to one of the other slaves. A desirable state, according them greater freedom with larger quarters, although the choice of partner was not theirs to make, it was the master's. Therefore for a slave to form an unauthorised attachment was forbidden. When John asked what happened to the luckless pair, her eyes clouded over and she went silent. For the rest of that morning she remained visibly upset, not willing to discuss it any further despite all his attempts to cheer her up.

She was a good kid, and John was pretty sure he owed her his life, but he felt uneasy at the way she looked at him, especially when she thought he didn't notice. He wasn't a vain man, but it was as clear as day the pretty housemaid liked him, maybe a little too much.

John realised her attentions, while flattering could be a problem if they went too far, and he didn't want to hurt her for the world. He only hoped she would come to her senses in time, because for one, he was far too old for the young girl, and besides, he had no intention of staying there.

Though escape was going to prove problematic as it wasn't just the solid, locked door that was keeping him in. That barrier only the first hurdle, John realised, as once he summoned enough strength to stumble painfully over to the small oval window, his heart sunk like a stone. He was being held in a large fortress, and when he looked beyond soon realised that between him and freedom lay a one hundred foot drop to the ground, and an unforgiving landscape of rolling green fields, which reached out as far as the eye could see…

ooooOoooo

TBC

So John is a slave, and not just that, he's also lost his memory. One question answered, but several more to come.

Hope you enjoyed the chapter, and please, let me know what you think of the story so far.