Sara once lived in a country beautiful and lush. Able to go outside and see clouds, fell wind on her face. But This was not to be. Her home land was invaded and the people who tried to fight for freedom dragged away. She watched her mother and father get taken. She was desperate. Starving and parched. She stole a small cake from a stand. The punishment? Prison. The king needed slaves to do back breaking work. To serve an eternal sentence. But Sara dreams of escaping but does not dare to believe she ever will. But she does not understand who she is. When she meets Ged, new guard from her homeland, he tells her she is much more important than she thinks.
The dark, dusty room was empty except what anyone would be forgiven for thinking was a pile rags. But no, the rags moved. A face, once pretty, now broken and eternally scared tendrils of once thick and lustrous black hair falling across it.. Her back, dress and skins alike torn to shreds by the prison master's cat and ninetales. A grille opened in the bottom of the thick wooden door. Through it was shoved a plate of scraps. A little meat left on the leg of what must have been a healthy chicken, bread crusts and stale crackers. A small cup of water.
" Thank you..." she muttered quickly.
" What was that, scum! Say it louder or I'll feed it to the pigs." The guard sneered.
" Th- thank you..." She said, louder this time.
" Thank you what?" He teased.
" S-sir thank you sir!" She almost yelled. " Please i'm starving don't take it away!"
" Huh." The guard muttered. He walked away and she heard him start laughing as he turned the corner. None the less, she shoveled down the food. After a few hours of back breaking work in the courtyards, breaking stones or worse, being dragged out in chains to the kings fields to harvest crops, she had learned to worship the scraps and tolerate the guards. The rota changed everyday. Some days there would be a nice guard who saved the chicken leg he didn't want for a lucky prisoner, some days a guard who merely waited and sighed at the supposed triviality of the job at hand. She worshiped these days, food and no harassment. But at least once a week there would be a guard who enjoyed hearing a prisoner beg for her food, or liked to force her to say thank you. She finished the food and shoved the plate back through the hatch. Then she downed the water and shoved the cup through too. The guards did this on rota too and the mean ones would pull away your plate before you'd finished if you took too long. Soon the clatter of the the plate trolley became clear. The guard on duty slid across her grille and locked it.
She shuffled back to her corner and slowly fell a sleep.