His head ached. He could hardly lift his arms to rub the sleep from his eyes. They were heavy, as if he were trying to lift all of Saint Bard’s books with only his wrists. His head felt heavy, his arms heavy, everything was heavy and weighing down on him and he wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep. His head lolled on his shoulders. Rest. That’s all he wanted.

But something was keeping him awake. He realized it was the dull thud of a foot that kicked him in the side, over and over again. He knew he should feel indignant about this, but he couldn’t remember why. He couldn’t even remember where he was. Where was he? Who was kicking him?

”He doesn’t look like much, but….I swear he’ll be….on your farm…Lord Burrough.”

A jolt of fear helped him wake up. Along with awareness came pain, and he tried to move away from the person that was abusing him. Only then did he notice the chains that were around his neck, hands, and legs.

”His name?”

“His name…he has no name.”

“…for his master. Damon Sterling.”

Damon. That wasn’t his name. His name was—he was—

Wait. Flashes of memory, as fast as lightning, illuminated the confusion in his mind in bursts that only deepened his fear. Someone putting robes on his shoulders. A small, quiet young man. Books. Flowers. Something sickly sweet and sticky running down his beard. A gorgeous young foreign woman, dancing for him on a stage. A taste in his mouth, bitter now, that still held sway over him. A taste with a strange name, a name he could barely remember now…