Memoirs of a Fallen God

Chapter 3

So ended my only glimpse of anything resembling a normal childhood. From there I was deposited into the main slave quarters, in the company of some thirty or so others. It was a large, wide building with dirt floors, portioned into small roofless cells. If it sounds as though I am describing a barn for the housing of livestock, that may be because that's precisely what it amounted to. Only here, the livestock in question was human, and the locks were much sturdier.

I didn't warrant a full cell, of course; such luxuries were saved for the contributing slave families, not unattached, untested little nuisances like myself. I merited nothing more than a pile of straw in a corner, and I had to fight to keep even that.

I was what was referred to as a seed slave, a young slave bought very cheaply off the block for his or her future potential. A healthy, strong slave in their prime was a thing of value, and could bring a heavy weight of silver at sale. But the younger slaves, those who wouldn't be capable of hard labor for years yet, could be had for a fraction of the cost.

Since the cost of feeding and housing a slave, even for years, was little more than a pittance, clever owners bought the younger slaves at a bargain price and waited for them to grow up into the hard working slaves they truly desired. A bit of a gamble, but most owners thought it a sound investment, even if they lost a few on the way.

Such was my lot. I was even more expendable than most other slaves, for they at least had their own value protecting them to some extent. As Mother Mera had suggested, I kept my head low and tried not to draw attention to myself. I did as I was asked without question and as well I was able. I quickly learned that, while I wasn't really expected to make much of a contribution, I was still very much expected to work. And work I did.

What can one say about life as a slave? I suppose, at its heart, it amounts to constant, backbreaking labor, day after day, with never enough of anything. A life with no rewards, nothing to look forward to but another day of work on the morrow.

But is that really so different from, say, the life of a farmer? Or any vocation, really, if one scrapes off enough of the gilt?

Yes, of course it is. Don't be a fool. Slavery is an abomination and I despise it as I despise nothing else in this world. I despise it as only one who has lived through it can.

A seamstress, or a farmer, or a merchant might work hard long hours to put food on the table. I don't deny it. And they might well do the same thing again the next day. But if the day after they come to work exhausted or ill and can't work as hard, well, they probably won't take home as much coin that day. Unfortunate.

But if a slave happens to have an off day, there is every chance they will be dragged out behind a barn by their hair and whipped until either they start working harder or they stop breathing.

Make no mistake, to a slave owner, a slave is not human. A slave is an animal, a piece of property, like a goat or a plow or a shovel, with no more value than the work it can produce. If a shovel is bent, one doesn't coddle it and ask it to try and do a better job tomorrow. One takes a hammer and starts beating the blade until it straightens out and works properly. A slave is treated with much the same consideration.

And the worst part, the very worst part, is there are many slaves who, after years of such treatment, come to believe that they deserve nothing better.

There is no life more grueling, no life more brutal than that of a slave. And among slaves, there are none with a worse lot than those forced to work the fields.

Which is, of course, precisely where I ended up.

That isn't to say our lives were completely devoid of enjoyment. We had our pleasures, our own hopes and aspirations. Mostly though, we slaves had each other.