Thanks again for the reviews, and again I want to apologise to the anonymous reviewers, as the system doesn't allow me to answer you.

DAMAGED

CHAPTER 8

When he awoke that morning to see the white cotton tunic and brown pants folded neatly at the end of his bed, John knew the brief respite he'd been accorded since arriving was over. While a few of the deeper lacerations were still slow to heal, he felt if not good, then at least much better. Even the lingering headaches were more bearable than before, until he tried to remember anything, then a sharp, blinding spike drove through his skull like a pick axe, bringing him to his knees.

Soon afterwards though the day went downhill real fast, when the door swung open to reveal not Streya, but instead two goons who roughly grabbed him by the arms, then forcibly removed him from the small, spartan room where he'd been staying since he arrived. Streya had told him that morning he would shortly be taken to meet some guy called the Chamberlain, and warned him to mind his Ps & Qs, but he hadn't the heart to tell her he was looking for answers, and didn't care who's feathers he ruffled to get them.

Still, although he was pissed getting hauled along like a sack of potatoes, at least it gave him an opportunity to see beyond the locked room. Unfortunately though, he found it much as he expected since that first depressing look out the window - impenetrable. The building was a mass of long, winding corridors, all identical, with thick, sandstone walls and few windows, all too narrow for a grown man to climb through, and even if he did, there was the steep drop to consider.

John suppressed a sigh, as the deeper he went into the dimly lit castle the more disheartened he became. Escape, he gradually realised would be problematic, if not downright impossible, and even if he did manage to get outside the castle walls, there was still the unknown dangers lurking in the moat to consider, not forgetting the flat, unforgiving landscape where a prisoner on the run would be spotted within minutes.

Already depressed, he was pretty on edge even before he met the big cheese. The tall, well-built guy sitting behind the large wooden desk clearly no push over, and although he wasn't the 'Master' John was hoping to meet, he soon pronounced himself as being the next tier of command, the person responsible for all slaves. His name was Hamlane, and while they seemed a similar age from what John could tell, that's where the resemblance ended.

Despite being under par, John reckoned he still looked reasonably fit, but even under the fine, green linen tunic he could see the big guy's muscles had muscles, and Hamlane's wild red hair, tied back in a ponytail, should have given him a warning about his temper. He also appeared to be a one-man judge and jury, John soon accused of being a troublemaker, branded like freaking cattle, then thrown into a cold, damp cell with no bed, or even a blanket to keep out the chill seeping into his bones. All he had was a dirty bucket in the corner for relief, and the only water, trickled down the walls forming puddles on the flagstones beneath.

The stench of his own burning flesh had made him gag, and shrouded by pain, he could barely remember being hauled from the office then half- dragged, half-carried though seemingly endless corridors until he was thrown into the cell. Once there, too stunned to resist as the guards made short work of stripping him to his boxers, before attaching short metal chains to the bands around his wrists and ankles.

For a long time afterwards he'd just laid there, trembling as the searing heat spiked through his arm, rendering it useless, while the pain radiated in agonising waves though his body. Later, in misery, he shivered as he hugged himself trying to gain some relief against the fierce, biting cold, curling up in a ball with his back to the bars, ignoring Hamlane when he came to dress the wound. Defiance all he had left, shutting out the bastard who did this to him, along with the hellish conditions, and the humiliating life that had been thrust upon him.

Once left blissfully alone, tears, more of anger than pain fell unhindered as he wondered what the hell he'd ever done to deserve this? Or maybe he did. Perhaps this was payback for a life of crime? Maybe he was a thief, or worse, a murderer? John didn't know. What he did know was slavery was all wrong. Neither was it right to judge someone on the basis of what he once wore around his neck, or a few resentful looks.

Sometimes, when exhaustion won over the constant ache, sleep would come and along with it fuzzy, scattered images. In his dreams he saw a beautiful place full of tall spired buildings that pierced the sky. Then later he would join them, flying…Higher and higher, deeper into the blue, the feeling of exhilaration almost palpable as the clouds raced by, even though it was only a dream.

Then he started to shiver, and the image, memory, whatever it was, smashed into a million pieces as the dingy cell came in view. Whether any part was real, or it was just a dream taking him away from this freaking place, John didn't know, but with no memory of his former life, and the prospect of years of misery ahead, he was running out of hope.

Still, regardless of the indignity heaped upon him, he was determined not to give the Chamberlain what he wanted. They could brand him, keep him starving and in chains, even beat him if they wanted, but they would never break him. No matter what they did, he would never accept the life of a slave. Slavery was wrong on every kind of level, and regardless of what it cost him, he would never yield in that way to any man. In branding him, rather than making him subservient to their wishes, the deep, searing pain had unleashed a rage that even now was threatened to consume him. He was a man with no past, no ties, and now no hope… a dangerous combination.

He was determined they would never enforce their will upon him, yet he knew this far from civilisation, and fitted with debilitating bracelets ready to bring him to his knees, he might never be able to get away. Given the circumstances, John made the only choice open to him…if he couldn't escape, he would rather die than live this way. Except a nagging thought kept telling him they wouldn't leave him behind, but didn't know who they were, their voices silent, their faces hidden beyond the dark void. It was just a feeling, but John was so desperate, he couldn't be sure if this was just another figment of his imagination, or a forlorn hope tricking him to keep holding on.

ooooOoooo

At the sound of the familiar footsteps John nearly stumbled, as, with his movements severely restricted by the chains, he struggled to his feet wondering if today's meal was the turkey dinner he'd ordered, or the usual cold slop and mug of water.

The wry smile soon died on his lips though, as he couldn't be sure how long he'd been there, but his ragged boxers, once sitting snugly round his waist, were now loose, and in serious danger of falling round his feet. So, the daily meal, unpalatable at best, could not to be refused as it was all there was. Today, though, he wasn't hungry. He felt numb from the cold, his body aching from lying on the hard stone floor, especially his arm, but the nausea had chased starvation away. John didn't feel well, but was damned if they were going to find out…no way would he let them see him beaten.

"Good evening, John. How are you feeling today?" John gave himself a mental shake, realising Hamlane had got the drop on him and appeared while he was daydreaming.

"Just peachy, thanks," he replied, trying to sound upbeat and forcing a smile on his face. "But I don't think much of the jewellery." John raised his chaffed wrists in response. "Plus you're needing to do something about the heating."

Hamlane shook his head sadly, without even cracking a smile at his bad joke, and John realised he was probably in trouble…again.

"So, I see you still aren't ready to assume your duties, or for that matter show me any respect," Hamlane muttered, his tone annoyed as he shook his head.

"Well, Chamberlain, where I come from respect has to be earned," John responded, aware that his answer probably sounded insolent, but at this point feeling a little reckless, and damn it to hell…he no longer cared.

Hamlane folded his arms then stared at him, as if trying to size him up. "And where is this place with such high ideals, John? Have you been able to remember yet?" he asked in feigned curiosity "Or are you, as I initially surmised, just a trouble maker with a lot of fine words, who needs to be taught his place."

"If only I could remember, then maybe you would start treating me with some respect," John responded, giving the Chamberlain a scathing look. "Look, buddy, while it's true I can't remember anything about my life, or my faults for that matter, I'm pretty sure, being a liar isn't one of them," he replied, his low voice not disguising his contempt for the man on the other side of the bars.

"How long have you been in here now, John? Five, Six days?" Hamlane asked, although John knew the question was rhetorical.

"Wouldn't know…time flies when you're having fun," John shrugged, trying to seem unconcerned, reluctant to show the bastard how much he was suffering.

"Come now, John. You're not going to tell me that the prospect of a hot meal and a good night's sleep in a comfortable bed isn't appealing?" Hamlane tempted. John kept his expression stoic, not wanting to give the big guy any clue as to how much the offer appealed. "No comment to that, John?" he said pressing the issue. "Can I take it that means you're still not willing to yield to the Master?"

"There's only one master of my destiny…and that's me," John answered simply, but it was clear from the flash of anger, quickly suppressed in the brown eyes, Hamlane didn't like the reply.

"Well, I can see that you obviously enjoy the conditions down here far too much." A grim smile grew on Hamlane's face. "Durand." The Chamberlain turned, and spoke to the tall, blonde-haired youth by his side. "Set about making John a little more comfortable, would you?" he asked, then continued addressing himself to both men, but looking at John pointedly. "And no food, only water for the next couple of days."

John felt his stomach lurch as the tall guard opened the door and immediately grabbed him, then threw him against the wall. He tried to resist, but winced as the all too familiar sharp bite of the needles once again did their job. Soon he could barely stand, his limbs, like lead, were unable to move, as the youth forced his arms above his head, throwing the narrow chain between his wrists over a hook lodged deep in the rough, cold stone half way up the wall.

By the time he was finished, John was unable to sit or stand. The only position possible an agonising half-squatting, crouched arrangement as he swung uncomfortably between the floor and wall. Earlier that morning, John hadn't thought he could be any more miserable, but he'd been wrong. His arm, already painful before, was now unbearable, his weak legs aching under the strain, and his long, narrow back, now twisted to its limits, was already seizing into spasms.

"Perhaps a few uncomfortable nights, and an empty belly will change your attitude," Hamlane pronounced, in an amused tone, clearly happy with his handiwork. "However, you should be aware that the Master is growing impatient, and unless you accept your servitude soon….well, let's just say he is a far less tolerant man than I."

John cussed under his breath as the two men slammed the barred door, then walked away leaving him literally hanging. It had only been minutes, but already every muscle in his body was screaming, and, already in pain before, John didn't know how long he could stand this. If he called them back now and apologised, agreed to accept his lot, he reckoned Hamlane might just release him, but at what cost – his pride?

Yet, as soon as the thought entered his head, he knew instantly, despite his misery, that was all he had left. So he squeezed his eyes shut, pulled in a shuddering breath, and prepared to endure the endless night, hoping somewhere along the way the visions would return and take him to a happier place.

ooooOoooo

Despite the constant pain, at some point during the long, miserable hours leading to dawn, exhaustion finally claimed him. Although by the time Durand released him next morning, his body felt dead, nothing worked and he fell boneless to the floor. Soon though, his suffering began anew as nerves starved of oxygen suddenly sprang to life. White hot shafts of pain spiked through every muscle as he writhed in agony, and he bite his lip till the sharp metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, trying desperately not to cry out.

After what seemed like an eternity, the torture finally passed and as the blood flowed freely once more. John breathed a sigh of relief that he was left with only the pounding in his head, and the dull throbbing ache in his arm to contend with. Unfortunately he soon realising something was wrong, as despite the freezing temperature in the ice cold cell, he felt hot, his skin clammy and warm to the touch…he was sick.

Not fully recovered from his previous injuries, John wasn't completely surprised when even in the gloomy cell he saw the large oval burn on his arm had became infected. It wasn't the escape he hoped for or ever wanted, but disheartened, he finally accepted he was well and truly screwed. Now, his only chance was if he managed to conceal his illness, then with luck the fever would take hold before anyone noticed, and release him from the misery that was now his life.

He wasn't a quitter, but faced with a choice of spending the rest of his days enslaved, or death…it was no contest. It wasn't the way he wanted to die, or even his second or third choice, but he would take it all the same. John just hoped by huddling into the corner and turning his back on the guards, Hamlane would think he was still pissed, so would leave him in peace, giving him the time he needed to gain back some control over his life, or at the very least, his death.

The darkened corner the perfect place to conceal the tell tale flush of damp, fevered skin, and the shivers that racked his body. Food was denied him, but that, too, played into his hands, as an untouched meal would have aroused suspicion, because sick to his stomach, John was already struggling to control the dry heaves, thankful only water was pushed through the bars.

Weakened by hunger and illness, it took all of his strength to still his shaking limbs long enough to hide his condition when Durand entered the cell to put him back into the same sadistic position as the night before. The young guard too intent on his task to even notice the heat radiating in waves from his clammy skin, and the glazed eyes that didn't even try to protest, as he once again secured him to the wall.

This time, though, the fresh assault of pain as ravaged muscles once again went into spasms, was nearly his undoing, the nightmare of before intensified by the shuddering waves as shivers tore through his body. In agony now, each tiny movement proved torturous, and he cried. Tears of fear, frustration and anger at what he was being forced to do. He felt ashamed of himself, knowing it was wrong to just give up like this, but what else could he do?

During the long, agonising hours of darkness, John realised he'd been dumb to believe there would ever be a rescue, because it was obvious now he'd been abandoned. He was unwanted, thrown out like so much garbage and left to die under the baking sun to become a worthless dried out husk, fodder for the wildlife in the desert. Demoralised, he realised the gnawing feeling that there was someone out there who cared was nothing more than the fading hope of a desperate man. He hated to admit it, but in one respect John knew Hamlane was right, he must face facts. There was no one looking for him, because who cared about the death of a worthless slave?

ooooOoooo

TBC

Well, the whump has begun in earnest...Hope you liked, and please let me know what you think.