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Aspen blocked them out again. Too soon, the chain clanking dragged him to the horrible present again, and a man’s voice rumbled as he was pulled to his feet by someone. His legs buckled, and his knees hit the floor.
“Can he walk? Hey, look at me. What’s his name?”
"Aspen," a different voice said.
The woman holding him upright had to be at least fifty. He was supposed to be Aspen, but if he didn't feel real, was he still Aspen? The dingy room was tilting, and he couldn’t make out the features of the other slaves. The man said something, and he started to cry as he shook. He couldn’t take it again, but he also couldn’t fight when the guy slung him over his shoulder like a toy.
Outside was so blinding, he couldn't open his eyes, and the carriage wasn’t much better. He figured the guy would get straight to the fucking when he placed Aspen on the cushy seat. He slumped over, too weak to hold himself up, and the guy retreated to the opposite seat. The woman hurried to get next to Aspen and cover him with her shawl.
“I can't believe I didn't think to bring clothes. Sit up and lean against me. It’ll be alright. What happened to you?”
Aspen could only get out three words. “They hurt me.”
“Who hurt you?”
“Sira, what do you think happened?” asked the man. “If he was a pleasure slave, he was probably King Leneer’s, and I'm sure he was used on the boat.”
Aspen was too weak to do anything except let the woman hold him and pat his back. She smelled soft and delicate like a Grandma who baked cookies and knitted all day. The guy had to be in his fifties too, and he had a set of feathery wings that he kept folded close.
Since he didn't seem ready to attack, or at least not yet, Aspen focused on the floor and drifted into a haze while the carriage went on. He had no idea how much time had passed when the carriage stopped.
The man carried him like a baby into the large, fine house. Aspen started to cry again as he was taken into a bedroom. This man would be on him every day, and he’d never be able to fight him off. He’d probably end up chained to a headboard and never allowed up just like on the ship. They’d force water into him and keep him alive forever so they could make him suffer.
But the man laid him on the bed and backed off as Sira tucked the blankets around Aspen. She petted his head. “No one is going to hurt you. In fact, you’ll have a lovely life here, and you can recover.”
Lies. All lies. He was only good for sex. His past had proved that by now. His eyes started to close on their own.
“Get some sleep, and I’ll bring you soup.”
Time seemed jagged. The woman had to feed him, although he only remembered snatches of that. He vaguely realized he had pissed himself at one point too. She moved him to change the sheets and didn’t seem angry that he’d peed the bed like a child because he was too weak and couldn’t comprehend how to get up and walk to find a privy.
She gave him bread soaked in goat’s milk, and he could tell she’d added in loads of sugar. She said that would get his strength up. He didn’t know many times he’d eaten and slept or if he’d pissed himself again or not when she helped him up.
“Come on, you have to walk sometime.”
“I can’t.” His legs shook like jellied fruit.
“You need to. You’ve got work to do soon so you have to get your strength up. You can't do that by staying in bed forever."
Work? The room tilted as his eyes pricked with tears. No, he couldn’t do that again. He’d rather jump from a cliff than let that big man touch him and use him day in and day out.
“I can’t! I w-won’t.”
He tried to drop to the floor. He wouldn’t do anything. He’d find something sharp and kill himself. Sira didn’t have much trouble keeping him up, and she tugged him into the privy.
“Nobody is going to hurt you like that here,” she whispered against his hair as she paused and hugged him to her chest. “You’ll have a nice Father now, and nobody will make you do anything you don’t want. Except for eating and getting better. You have to do that.”
A Father? His Father had been dead for ages. Sira stood him in front of the privy. Instead of simple planks that have been smoothed so nobody ended up with a splinter in their arsecheeks when they sat, it had been stained and painted with some kind of shiny glaze. He vaguely remembered that the house did seem rich from what little he’d been able to comprehend earlier. The bedroom was plain like a guest room but still nicer than some random commoner’s bedroom.
“Piss,” she said, snapping him out of his stupor. “You can hold your own dick.”
He did have to go. Once he finished, she asked if he needed to sit, but he shook his head. With mostly liquid lately, he wouldn’t be surprised if he never shit again. His insides felt concave, and he’d never seen his legs this skinny before or been able to count his ribs so easily, not that he’d ever been podgy to begin with.
Sira helped him to wash his hands, and she sat him on a stool while she gave him a sponge bath. He leaned against the wall and let her do whatever to him.
“You haven’t got any freckles,” she tutted while washing his face as if being devoid of freckles was terrible. “At least your hair is the right color. I guess the length is fine too. Anybody can grow it out.” She dropped the sponge in the basin. “Come on. You can take another nap and some more goat’s milk and sugar. I put some things in it to help you get stronger. I've got some good herbs since the lady in town always has the best stuff."
He’d never be strong again.
