Thanks again for the reviews and the alerts - I'm glad you're still enjoying the story.

So now we have a clue why John ended up at the castle, but how is he?

DAMAGED

CHAPTER 10

When Durand had raised the alarm that morning after finding the new slave unresponsive in the cell, Hamlane cursed himself for having been so careless.

While it was his job to ensure compliance amongst the workforce, he prided himself on only inflicting such discipline as was necessary, rarely using the whip, except in extreme cases, as in his experience violence was not the way to gain trust or moderate behaviour in the long term. Besides, he was only too aware that the harsh punishment left the victim debilitated for days and sometimes, like the poor child, Marella, was too much pain for some to cope with.

Anger still burned in him, along with the sick feeling of remorse at the needless death of the pretty young girl. The fact that the Master was now home and dealing with his nephew, while satisfying, did not take away the humiliation he suffered at Ballam's hand. His refusal to respect his position and then overriding his method of discipline in favour of a vicious whipping, still rankled, but more than that, it had been unnecessary. Marella had been a good girl, with a promising future ahead, and certainly didn't deserve to die such a violent death.

Hamlane felt ashamed, realising that despite his refusal to whip the child himself, he still should have done more to stop it. But he'd been afraid - afraid that he would be the next to endure the bite of the hard leather straps, but also concerned about what his continued defiance against the next Lord Protector would mean, not just for his future, but also for the rest of the household if he were to lose what influence he had. At least thanks to Ballam's unwilling generosity, Hamlane could now at least make some amends to this slave for the unnecessary branding the sadistic young master had ordered. He just hoped it wasn't too late.

John's deathly pallor and deep, weeping cuts were evidence he'd lost consciousness at some point during the night, leaving him hanging limp, with only his wrists supporting his weight for hours. Too many hours it would seem, judging by the large pool of blood gathered beneath his feet, the man himself so cold, so still, Hamlane had at first thought he was dead. Acutely aware if this man were to die, he couldn't entirely place all the blame on Ballam's needless branding, as some of the blood congealing on the floor would also be on his hands for failing to judge the situation with his usual skill.

Hamlane watched in silence from the back of the room while the physician tended the sick man, wondering how long John had been ill. Obviously several days judging by the state of the angry, swollen arm, seeping puss from the ragged incision. His pale skin shone, almost luminous against the crisp white sheets as he shivered and struggled to breathe. It was now clear he had concealed his illness from them, using cunning and deception to hide his distress and allow the treatable wound to become badly infected. From all appearances he'd planned on the fever taking his life. John wanted to die – the question was why?

Right from their first meeting, Hamlane had realised there was something different about him. John's manner suggesting, even then, he was unlike any other slave he'd met. Initially, he'd thought him arrogant and his story a tall tale at best. Now, though, while it wasn't unusual for someone to protest against their servitude, being prepared to die to avoid being enslaved was a completely different matter. It was now clear John's remonstrations were born out of genuine belief, because in Hamlane's view, choosing death over a life of slavery could only mean one thing…John truly believed he was a free man.

If that was the case, then who was he, and why had the young master saved him from the desert? With Ballam it was hard to tell; he was a consummate liar, with not one grain of generosity or compassion in his worthless body. Therefore, as far as he could guess, John had only been brought here for one of two reasons, either personal gain or revenge. Which one Hamlane couldn't be certain, although revenge was the more likely option, as what profit could be gained from a damaged slave?

"Chamberlain, do you know what this is?" Distracted by his thoughts, Hamlane hadn't realised the physician was standing before him, with his palm outstretched, holding a small piece of deformed metal.

Almost obscured by blood and small pieces of flesh, he could scarcely make it out, but whatever it once was, had been destroyed by the fiery heat of the branding iron. "I don't know, Doctor, but it's not like anything I've ever seen before," he replied, curious. "I'll show it to the Lord Protector. He might know because before Master Garmend took office, he used to be an accomplished inventor; in fact, it was him who designed the bracelets worn by the slaves."

The physician went over to a small metal basin and washed his hands while he spoke. "Well, whatever it is was the main cause of infection. It appears when the brand seared through the flesh, it also melted this metal device, which was hidden underneath his skin. Unlucky really, as he could have been branded anywhere else without any long term problems, also a bit strange when you consider that it would only be the recipient or the person who put it there, who would be aware of its presence."

He paused, then turned to give John a curious sideways glance. "Anyway, I've cleaned the wound as well as possible, but unfortunately, the infection has already taken hold so it may be too late. This medicine," he handed Hamlane a slim clear glass bottle, containing a yellow liquid, "is an antibiotic which may help, but we'll have to wait and see. In the meantime, keep bathing him with cold water, then if the fever breaks, keep him warm and give him plenty of fluids."

Hamlane nodded, surprised to feel almost nervous about the answer to his next question. "What is your prognosis…will he survive? "

"Honestly, I don't know," the physician answered bluntly, then he gave Hamlane a puzzled look. "Why are you so concerned, Chamberlain, he is just a slave after all, easily replaced. In fact, I am amazed the Lord Protector authorised the expense for me to attend him."

For an instant Hamlane was angry, annoyed that someone who was supposed to put health and welfare above all else showed such little regard for human life. Then he suddenly realised…up until Marella had been killed he'd felt the same way. "Well, Doctor, in this instance you are seeing a different type of punishment at work. Your fee is coming out of the young Master's allowance."

"Ahh…now I understand." The physician turned from putting on his coat and smiled. "Still causing trouble is he? Don't worry, your confidence is safe with me. Where is he anyway? It's early for him to retire, and I usually see him lurking around the female slaves' quarters with a glass of wine in his hand."

Now it was Hamlane's turn to give a wry smile. "I really wouldn't know. He's been strangely absent ever since the Lord Protector called him to his chambers earlier this evening…"

ooooOoooo

With barely concealed impatience, Streya waited until nightfall before leaving the small, dingy room she'd once shared with Marella. Yet, while she was glad there was no one to question her absence, the death of her best friend had left a dark, hollow void in her life. It broke her heart to know they would never again laugh about the day's gossip, or talk late into the night sharing their hopes and dreams for the future.

Shrouded by darkness, she peeked round the rough wooden door, and, seeing the corridor deserted, made her way quickly outside. Her mouth was dry and her heart raced, only too aware breaking curfew was a serious offence, but cast caution to the wind - desperate to find the answer to her question. The corridors were deserted this late at night with everyone asleep, exhausted by their labours. She, too, was tired, but undaunted, Streya moved quietly along, taking small sections at a time, ducking behind the stone pillars at the slightest sound. Fortunately no one else was there, the only witness to her offence…a small brown mouse.

Then, after what seemed like an eternity…she was there. The laundry empty this time of night, but the lingering heat from the large machines welcome, warming her cool skin after her short but chilly journey through the castle.

Evaelund, the junior housemaid who worked there, was known to be lazy, and for once Streya hoped the small, freckled girl had lived up to her reputation as she searched through the masses of clothing still to be washed, endless piles of dirty tunics and pants not to mention…unmentionables, piled high against the wall. The musty smell was oppressive, assaulting her nostrils, making her gag as she vainly covered her mouth with her hand, only hoping the end result would be worth it.

Aware that dawn would soon be upon them, heralding the start of a new day, Streya worked faster, praying she wouldn't be discovered, but more than that, she was desperate to find the proof she needed, relieved, when she felt the soft, malleable leather under her fingers…she'd found it. His scent was still clinging to the garment, just as he was still clinging to life.

It was pure luck she'd seen the strangers enter the castle that day, immediately recognising the same attire John had been wearing when he arrived. But Streya knew there was danger in making this disclosure to the wrong person, especially without proof. So she'd reluctantly kept silent, but with John gravely ill and rumours flying that he'd hidden his illness because he wanted to die, she realised she would have tell someone…but who?

Tears fell unhindered at the thought of losing another she cared for so soon after the death of her friend, knowing now even if John did survive, he would never be hers. After all, she was just a common slave, and he, the free man he'd always claimed to be. Yet she loved him all the same and always would, so the least she could do was save him from a life he despised or, if the worst happened…let the truth be told and allow him to die free.

ooooOoooo

Hot. He felt hot…roasting, as if stuck in a furnace or damned to the fiery depths of hell.

So that was it then, he'd finally become Satan's house guest, doomed to spend the rest of eternity as barbecued meat. Images of a thick-set man with a pock-marked face laughing, his once grey uniform now mottled with burns, called to him. "This way, Sheppard…I have a grill with your name on it - right next to the Wraith." He knew this man, the gaping hole in his chest familiar…he'd put it there, but why? What had the guy done? Was his death an act of murder or had this man deserved to die?

John shivered, now freezing, the raging heat of before suddenly gone. He was unable to stop shaking as the chills wracked his body, cranking up the pain as he writhed in agony, the image of before gone along with the warmth, but one memory remained…his name.

He was John Sheppard. It had been a second name, not a designation after all, the first small piece of the puzzle falling into place - if only he could remember where he came from.

In the dark recesses of his mind, the blurry image of a woman called to him. Even though it was hazy he could tell she was beautiful, her long hair like molten honey sweeping carelessly around her shoulders, the warm, brown eyes filled with tears. Her lyrical voice, rough with emotion, begged him to hold on…He knew her, but not in that way. She was a friend, one of his best...but he couldn't recall her name.

John felt his eyes moisten, as one by one indistinct but visible images appeared to him all at once. A short, stocky man who never stopped talking, a fierce, well built giant with long braided dread-locked hair flying in the wind, then a soft-spoken man with an lilting accent telling him everything would be okay…Friends, but more than that, they were family. All of a sudden he wasn't alone any more, but they weren't there, he wasn't home…he also wasn't dead.

He groaned, realising while these images had given him fresh hope, the reality of his situation still remained. Every sordid detail of the last few days flooded back - enslaved, branded and thrown into a harsh prison, wearing tight chains that dug painfully into his flesh and barely able to see, the only light visible through a small, round windowless gap, set high in the dark stone wall. Numb with cold, the sound of continuous dripping water had been tortuous as it fell on the ground forming into puddles, leaving the floor and him, constantly frozen and damp.

John didn't want to go back there…he'd wanted to die, but that was before. Now he knew there were others out there, somewhere where people cared for him, and he might not know their names yet, but he was sure of one thing. They would be searching for him, because his people never left anyone behind.

A cool, damp cloth touched his skin and he shivered, the shock springing his eyes wide to reveal Hamlane wiping his face, the man impassive as his expression gave nothing away.

Instinctively jerking away from the man's touch, he groaned as all the aches in his body, especially the white hot pain searing through his arm, made themselves felt. "Mnmnph…go…away!"

"Sorry, John, but I can't do that…someone has to take care of you." Then Hamlane reached for a glass, which he placed against his lips, and John, despite his reservations about his benefactor, drank the cool water greedily, savouring the relief it brought to his rough, dry throat.

"Streya?" John looked around for his former nursemaid, and wondered where she was.

Hamlane put down the damp cloth he was holding and gave him a wry smile. "Streya will not be tending you this time, John. It was clear to Madam Tresin that the girl was becoming too attached to you, an attachment that could have easily got her into trouble."

John stared at the man, not quite trusting what he said, but too stunned to make any response.

"She found your jacket - the one you were wearing when the young Master found you," Hamlane continued. "In fact, the foolish girl broke curfew to search for it."

"Wha…Where is she? Gah!" John tried to get up, worried that she'd been punished, but was paralysed by the nauseating waves of pain searing through his body.

"Calm down, John." The big man eased him back against the pillows, then applied a cold compress to his head. "Apart from giving her a warning about roaming the castle at night, I didn't punish her," he said. Then, giving him a searching look Hamlane continued, "By the way, I though you might be interested to learn it appears to be from the same uniform some visitors who came here were wearing the other day- I believe you could be right, John. It would seem that you may not be a slave after all. However, convincing the Master will be another matter."

"Home…?" John swallowed hard, desperate to find out where these people had come from.

"I don't know where that is yet, but I'll do what I can to help you," Hamlane promised, then John felt a cold splash of water as the cloth was thrown into the bowl. "My title may sound grand, John, but it is just that - a title. I'm only a slave, just as I thought you were." When John tilted his head their eyes locked, but Hamlane looked away, although in John's opinion the man appeared to be frustrated. "Now I can see you are tiring…you must rest."

A tremble made him gasp, and he pulled in a shuddering breath, trying to ride out the pain just as Hamlane gently raised his head once more. This time the glass contained a brown liquid that tasted bitter, but its warming aftertaste wasn't unpleasant. Besides, it quickly eased his distress as soon the pain became muted, more bearable, and he gradually felt his lids begin to droop.

Sleep was pulling him under, and John welcomed the brief respite oblivion would bring. This time, though, he wanted to wake up again…wanted to live. He knew there were still more questions than answers, but at least this time there was also hope.

ooooOoooo

TBC

Well, our boy is finally getting a bit of TLC, albeit from an unexpected source! I hope you enjoyed the chapter and please review.

BTW, apologies, as due to work commitments I will be unable to post again until Wednesday, but after that I intend posting every day until the story is finished - thanks for reading so far!