5Aleksander glances up at the buyer-an old man, balding on top with gray tufts of hair circling the skin patch. The old man looks over at him.
"... I'd like an experienced slave," the buyer says to the dealer. The trader nods his head, leading the elderly man over to the three tanned slaves. Aleksander lets out a soft sigh, pulling his knees to his chest. He may look new... but he is not. Two years. He has been waiting to be bought for two years.
"Have I been lucky or unlucky these past two years?" Aleksander murmurs to himself. He rests a hand upon his smooth head, sighing again. His clothes are simple, cotton linens while his nails are jagged and unmanicured. His feet are dirty from having no shoes. And he is defiantly thinner from a smaller diet... He looks nothing like the great lord he had once been.
The trader sells one of the dark slaves to the old man. Aleksander watches them walk off. He wrinkles his nose in distaste as he notices the old fogie stroke the poor slave's behind. He adverts his eyes, shuddering.
"... Please, God, do not stick me with a sex fiend if I am ever sold... I'd prefer to not be sold in the first place... but ... well you get the point," Aleksander murmurs, clasping his hands together. He sighs again. Aleksander glances over at the slave trader. He sits patiently for a while, barely moving. When the trader's back is turned, busy with some inane task, Aleksander quickly arises and breaks off in a sprint. He hears loud yells echoing after him, but he continues to run.
"Oof!" Aleksander grunts as he bashes into someone. He falls backward upon the dusty ground. He glances up, spying a tall, dark haired noble peering back down at him. He scrambles to his feet, about to run around him.
"Now where do you think you're going, run away?" the nobleman asks as he snatches hold of Aleksander's right wrist. The pale slave yelps and growls at the noble, trying to pull his hand loose.
"Let go of me!" he yells. The noble holds tight to his wrist. The slave trader catches up to them, panting from loss of breath.
"Thank you, sir," the trader says between huffs. The noble nods his head, handing Aleksander's wrist to him.
"Best keep better hold upon your.. merchandise," the noble chuckles. Aleksander glares at them both as the trade grabs onto his wrist, putting iron cuffs around them. The trader nods, and pulls Aleksander back to the bazaar.
"You're such a pest," the trader grumbles as he pushes Aleksander down upon the ground. He cuffs his wrist to one of the wooden posts, to keep him from running.
"... Not my fault you don't keep better watch," Aleksander replies, sticking out his tongue. The trader slaps him.
"I can't believe you're still this arrogant... after two years here," the trader sighs. Aleksander glares at him, rubbing his cheek with his free hand.
"No one wants me to work for them. You should just let me go," Aleksander grumbles.
"Then I would make no money at all," the slave trader shoots back, folding his arms and walking off. Aleksander curls up against the wooden post, shutting his eyes.
"I'm sick of being here," he murmurs to himself. "I'm sick of waiting. I'm sick of being looked at," he rambles on, letting out a yawn. "But most of all..." he says as he dozes off...
"I'm sick of being bald!" the lean slave yells at the traders as they hold him down to lather his bristly scalp.
"Struggling will only give you nicks," one of the traders says with a roll of his eyes. Aleksander kicks his legs, till one of the slave traders holds them down. It is like this every morning before the market place opens. All the slaves are bathed and shaved. They, after all, must look clean and suitable for any potential new owners.
Aleksander has felt his share of bloody nicks upon his scalp due to his thrashing, causing the razor to always slip. The traders release him after all the lather has been removed. The pale slave climbs to his feet, rubbing his tender head with his hand and glaring at the traders. He has never hated anyone more than those traders. They usher him outside, cuffing his wrist to the same wooden poll. Aleksander continues rubbing his head, then brings his hand down to his face, looking at the smeared blood upon his finger tips. He scowls at the redness.
"Made me bleed again, the bastards," he growls under his breath. He sits down upon the dusty floor and leans his forehead against the wooden post. He stares down at the tan colored debris. Green eyes focus upon a small line of ants. They are carrying muffin crumbs.
"... I would be no different if I was an ant... I wouldn't work," he says more to himself.
"Why won't you work?" an unfamiliar voice asks nearby. Aleksander keeps his eyes upon the ants, too proud to grant the questioner an answer.
"... I am talking to you, pale slave," the voice adds. Aleksander remains silent, furrowing his brow. Always pale slave, or white worker, or cream boy. He feels a hand grab onto his shoulder. The green-eyed slave finally turns his head, looking at the owner of the hand. His gaze narrows as he recognizes the dark-haired gent from the day before-The dolt who had foiled his plans of escape. Aleksander jerks his shoulder away.
"I wouldn't work because I am above hard labor. I am a nobleman's son. I deserve to be waited upon," Aleksander says with a sneer. The dark-haired noble, surprisingly, smirks at the arrogant slave. He releases his shoulder and walks over to the slave trader. Aleksander watches them converse. His eyes widen when he sees the gent exchange his money to the trader. The two of them walk back over to Aleksander. The slave trader releases Aleksander's wrist from his cuffs. The green-eyed slave stares up at them... too shocked to move.
"... Well, get up! You've been bought," the trader orders. Since the pale slave does not stand, the trader and the gent pull him to his feet.
"I don't know why you want a pompous ass like cream boy here, but hey its your money," the trader says. The gent keeps a firm hold upon Aleksander's wrist. He pulls upon his arm. Aleksander does not budge.
"I refuse to work for you," Aleksander says in a hiss as his mild bit of shock subsides. He pulls back upon his wrist. The noble keeps his grip tight.
"... He is a stubborn one isn't he?" the gent muses. The trader nods his head. The gentleman scoops up Aleksander into his arms and walks down the street. They come to a petite carriage. Another servant opens up the door as the gent walks into the carriage, setting the squirming Aleksander into the nearest seat. The doors close and the carriage takes off. Aleksander tugs upon the door handle to his left. But to his dismay, the door is locked.
"This is really quite ironic, you know," the dark-haired nobleman says nonchalantly. Aleksander looks at the gent from the corner of his eye.
"After all, here I am owning my most heinous master," the blue-eyed gent chuckles. Aleksander twitches ever so slightly upon hearing his new master's words. Instead of immediately spouting words like an imbecile, Aleksander looks the gentleman up and down. He notices now, that the master has rather dark skin for one so rich. And his gloved hands... they are missing a finger on each. Green eyes grow with disbelief.
"... It can't be..."
"Oh but it is, Master Aleksander... or shall I say... slave Aleksander?" the gent replies in smirk. He wiggles his left hand's digits-three fingers and one thumb. His leather gloves are tailored to fit with only four digits. Aleksander groans and curls up in the seat, burying his head in his hands.
"God... just what I need. A slave who I punished now is master over me. Oh God," Aleksander curses to himself, for that one moment regretting the foul act he ordered upon the slave so many years ago.
"I would prefer you not use the name of my God so frivolously," his master lightly scolds. Aleksander pays him no attention, instead shaking in the seat.
"... You're going to torture me aren't you? Out of revenge isn't it?" Aleksander says in a mild whimper. He shakes more. The gent snickers a little at the slave's reaction.
"Oh of course... Chop of a few of your fingers and toes... maybe one of your ears too. Then I'll make you scrub the chamber pots and lick them clean," his master muses. The pale slave's eyes roll into the back of his head.
He faints.