The winds blew cold against his dark skin as Ma’sal made his way onto the auction block. He was bare, utterly nude save for the shackles that bound his ankles and wrists. The chains of wrought metal clattered noisily as he moved, the old things prone to getting stuck and half a night from rusting. His eyes downcast, he felt too numb to think much as he made his way up the steps. Yet a sudden twinge of pain in his calf made him stumble, made him nearly fall, and fear sank its fangs into him in an instant. He couldn’t fall, couldn’t look weak! They would whip him if he was weak, if he didn’t sell. He needed to sell, needed—

Ma’sal drew in a cold breath, the brisk air making him shiver as he walked the rest of the way, turning to face the gathered crowd. There was always a crowd for a slave auction; strange, how it always drew men to see one of their own branded and bought like cattle. These men were no different than him, in a way, although he struggled to see how. They all wore long coats fashioned out of expensive hide, as if they fought to see who could skin the best pig, who could wear the best beastflesh on their shoulders. It sickened him to see their black veils, to see their gloved hands. It was as if they dared not expose themselves to more of this than they needed to.

It was as if he dirtied the very air around him.

“A young Ossian, strong and docile.” he heard the man to his right begin to speak, the low murmur that rippled through the crowd dying away. Ma’sal knew what they were speaking about, knew what those whispers were: it was the tattoos on his arm. They wound their way around his left limb like a serpent, their wrappings gentle and intricate from his wrist to his shoulder. It covered nearly the entire skin with dark ink—and most importantly, it was not Ossian.

That design, that seemed to resemble fire come to life, it was nothing a simple islander could manage. It was nothing a simple slaver’s stocks could possibly work. And so it drew those eyes towards him, those hungry, leering eyes. Should he squint, should the sun suddenly sink beneath the earth, he half expected that they might glow with a brilliant blood-red.

“He is firm of health, no worms upon him. He’ll work sunup to night without pause, without complaint.” He would? He would. He needed to sell; they’d whip him if he didn’t! Ma’sal nodded his head feverishly at these words, although none of the audience seemed to notice him. He was a stuffed head on the wall, some object barely worth the passing glance. He was a tool to them—and a grossly overpriced one, to many of them.

“Starting bid is 100 golds, anyone?” Almost immediately, there came a shout from the back. Ma’sal felt a flood of relief fill him, that at least he had escaped the whips today.

“A hundred-and-twenty!” came the cry from the front row, a fat man whose fured robes could not hide a corpulent body. His livery stank of wine and stew, odorous even at this distance, and a thin stick of a woman clung to his arm.

“A hundred-and-fifty!” retorted the first man, and the fat man’s expression screwed up into one of anger. Hushed whispers ran through the crowd once more, the atmosphere growing more tense. Ma’sal did not care; he was merely proud of himself for attracting a bid. Yet a stir of danger rose up inside of him as the two men continuied to fight; they thought too highly of him, of this tattoo. He would disappoint them, surely. He would disappoint them, just as he had all the others, and then he would be whipped for it. Or he would die.

Just like Pa. Just like Ma, and the others.

“Three hundred.” A cold voice suddenly rasped through the crowd, like one that had not been used often, like stone roused from slumber. It was hardly a rattling whisper, almost inaudible, and yet Ma’sal could hear it as if it came from just beside him. He shivered. How could he do that?

But he could not think long, for the bidding fell to a halt at that single man’s bid. Blood and bones, three hundred! Men bought palaces with that money—or so he assumed, he had never actually known how much it cost to buy a palace. Yet three hundred golds was an unfathomable amount to him, something owned by princes and kings, not by common men. And he was not even a common man; Ma’sal was a slave.

“Sold, to Gentleman Twenty-and-seven for three hundred golds!” the auctioneer finally spoke after waiting for a reply that never came. It was to be expected. Novelty from a tattoo was only worth so much, and Ma’sal was sickly in spite of what the auctioneer claimed. Too little on too spindly limbs, it would be a miracle if he had fetched a price beyond two hundred-and-fifty. Yet some fool had actually paid three hundred for him.

The other slaves all gave him envious glares, the ones that bothered. The ones that were not broken from the journey, that still lived enough to care about something so fleeting as a future. A wealthy master willing to pay so much for him, surely he would be treated well. Ma’sal supposed that was what they thought, yet he did not share the same sentiment.

He was weak. He ran short of breath before halfday when he was working, and his mind grew fuzzy if it was too hot. He was stupid. What Yes’san could learn in days, it took him weeks. The first time that father had tried to teach him to fish, he fallen into the sea leaning too far over the boat. He could do anything, had not done anything when the slavers came.

The slavers had killed them. Oh five and three curses, he shivered to himself as a calloused hand gripped him, steering him towards his new master. They were dead. Ma, Yes’san. Tears welled up in his eyes, although they did not fall. There were not enough of them to do that, and he was too dry for any more tears.

He finally arrived in front of the man that had paid for him, although Ma’sal could not make out much of his owner’s features. They were hidden in shadow, hidden behind a long robe that stretched from head to foot in a single piece. A hand stretched from inside—ungloved, some part of him realized in shock—and it gently grasped his wrist. The skin was wrinkled and old, evidence of age that no man could hide with paint and perfume. A single gnarled finger slowly traced Ma’sal’s tattoo, surprisingly warm against his skin.

Ma’sal hesitated to speak, uncertain of what to do. Yet the decision was stolen from him soon in any case, for the man abruptly pulled away as if disappointed. Shaking his head, he gestured from one of his followers. The similarly hooded acolyte took Ma’sal’s chains, leading up into a covered wagon. Ma’sal felt that small sliver of hope in his chest—so small that he himself had denied that it was there—snuff out nevertheless. Not even a minute, and already his master was disappointed.

What more could he expect? What more had he told himself?

The inside of the wagon was dark as well, the air stuffy and stinking of sweat. It took Ma’sal a moment to adjust, his eyes still blinded from sunlight, yet a second was apparently too long. His handler shoved him crudely, making him stumble and fall onto the wooden bottom with a thud. His jaw cracked, catching the edge of a loose nail, and he felt skin tear and bleed as he tried to catch his breath. Behind him, the sheets fell closed, shutting out the light and leaving the inside of the wagon dark.

Ma’sal lifted himself up slowly, trying to gather his thoughts. Now what? He felt around numbly, blindly with weak arms. Abruptly, his fingers touched flesh. Warm flesh. He jerked them back on instinct, fear and panic making his heart plummet into his stomach, his breath catching in his throat. Yet no response followed, even as he waited for his vision to return.

There was a clacking noise from outside, a churning of wheels on gravel, and he felt the wagon begin to move. It mattered not to him; he could not see outside save for the gaps between the covers and the bottom of the wagon, and there was nothing to see from there but dirt and stone.

Instead, his gaze was drawn towards his companions. There were four of them, a sad lump of life and limb as they lay sleeping in the wagon. He assumed that they were sleeping, for no merchant would ever be foolish enough as to let his slaves die before they had even left the auction.

The light was too dim to make out their features, and they did not rouse as he nudged them. Overcome by defeat and a sudden tiredness, Ma’sal could only give a sigh and acquiesce to his weary body. He set his head against that rattling wood that jumped with every hole in the road even as he struggled to sleep.

Yet sleep he did, and he wished for a moment that he had not. Sleep brought back memories of Ma and Pa, of Yes’san and baby Es’shira. They had been together back then, all together. And they had been happy—or had he merely wanted to remember it that way? No, they had been happy, yes. Pa had been smiling, back in those days. He still wore it as naturally as the waves wore ships.

Back in those days, Ma’sal thought, and his chest heaved with pain. Yet those days had not lasted, and neither had Pa’s smiles. And in the end, when everything had been taken away from, there had been nothing left.

Nothing left but fire at the docks.