As I stared into the dim cove of my folded arms and knees I could see the heavy chain resting on my thighs. Fantasy world, movie set or theme park, what did it matter? It didn’t look like I was going to be leaving any time soon. Perhaps I was asking myself the wrong question.

Maybe I should be asking myself: how the hell do I get home? I thought.

An exclamation of voices and clanging metal, about 20 feet to my left, made me look up from my bent knees and towards the source of the commotion. The one-eared elf, and two other mercenaries were standing about 50 feet from me. They were laughing and appeared to be prodding at something in one of the wagons. Whatever they were taunting reacted with low growls, and rocked the wagon threateningly. I shuddered hearing the wheels creak, as though they might give way, but the elf and his lackeys didn’t seem at all frightened.

At first I thought it was some poor animal, whose fate upon reaching the marketplace was probably far worse than mine, until I saw two pairs of massive human-like hands reach through the bars of the wagon and swipe at the three men in front of him. I say human-like, not human, because while having the same shape and number of appendages as any human hand, they were not flesh in color, but a deep forest green.

I immediately rose to my feet, and decided to pace around so that I could see exactly what the elf and his men were playing with. The chain would only let me go so far, and in order to get a closer look, it dug into my neck uncomfortably, but at least I could see most of what was happening. The wagon was more like a cage with wheels, like something out of an old-fashioned carnival or circus movie. Thick iron bars lined each side of it, with a warped wooden roof at the top, and a heavy, but crooked, door on one end. My breath caught in my throat as I saw what snarled between those iron bars.

The figure was so large that he took up about half the small wagon cage he was in, even while seated. His skin was a deep, earthy green from the top of his partially shaved head, to the toes of his gargantuan feet. From his jutting lower lip, currently twisted into a scowl, rose a pair of yellowed, pointed tusks. Although not exactly like the character art in my D&D manuals, or the 3D avatar options in my MMO game, there was no mistaking what this creature was.

That’s… an orc… I thought.

Although I was staring right at one, I still couldn’t believe it.

The men’s laughter died as the orc’s hands swung just a little too close to all three of them. The two human men looked a bit shaken, but the elf just frowned and with a wave of his hand and a few pretty, but strange, sounding words the orc was knocked backwards into the opposite bars of his cage. He cried out in pain, and slumped to the floor panting heavily, trying to regain the breath that must have been knocked out of his lungs.

But even from his compromised state, he carried an air of pride. He did not grovel, nor beg. Still breathing heavy ragged breaths, his dark red eyes glared at the elf. He didn’t say a word, but his stare said everything: Just one inch closer, bastard… and you’d be missing that hand…

The men started to shuffle back to their wagons and horses, the elf being the last to leave. He muttered something I couldn’t quite hear to the orc, but I doubted it was anything polite or complimentary. The orc’s expression remained the same –cold, defiant, proud. Eventually the elf went back to his horse, as well, leaving the orc alone.

I watched the whole scene play out, frozen in my spot, but I nearly jumped when the orc looked back at me. At first his expression was accusatory, as though he expected me to laugh at him, as well. But soon his face softened, and his eyes traveled up and down the chain at my neck. We stared at one another sadly, but in sympathy, not in pity. We were both prisoners.

I cursed myself, silently. What had I been doing while those men tortured this poor beast? A strong person would have said something: cried out and told them to stop. Tell them they ought to be ashamed of themselves for abusing a caged prisoner. A brave person would have done something: thrown a rock at them. Created some kind of diversion to take their attentions away from him.

I was neither strong, nor brave. I was weak, and a coward. A fact I knew long before I met these terrible men, but they were very good at reminding me of it.

They would have just come over and started abusing you, instead… I told myself. While this statement was true, even in my mind it sounded like nothing more than sniveling justification. At the very least I wanted to ask him if he was okay, but I feared that drawing attention to him and myself would only cause the mercenaries to start taunting him again.

Somehow, although I didn’t feel like I deserved it, the orc seemed to understand this. He gave me a slow nod of his head, and thumped his powerful right fist three times over his heart. Then he looked away, breaking whatever silent exchange had occurred between us.

A moment later the Captain called signaling that the break was over. The mercenaries returned to their horses and wagons, and I reluctantly returned to walk next to mine. I looked over my shoulder as the caravan started again, seeing only the orc’s thick fingers wrapped around his cage bars, admiring his pride while I was shameful of my own.

Dark storm clouds formed in the late afternoon sky, and not even the thick filter of trees could shelter us from the torrential rains that pelted us from above. Still, we trudged on even as the ground turned to mud under our feet. The men lifted their hoods over their heads, or adjusted their hats, but I had no protection. All I could do was try to keep from slipping in the mud as the rain beat my head and shoulders. Although thankfully the storm was brief, every inch of my skin was soaked by the time it receded; my legs were coated in a layer of mud up to my thighs, as were my forearms and chest, having fallen several times during the rain.

The rain had also made the afternoon air several degrees colder, and I shivered as I walked until my clothes and hair went from wet to just damp. Eventually the mud on my arms and front dried, and started flaking off. I began to revisit my earlier speculation about being in hell.

As the sun finally dipped beyond the horizon the forest grew far too dark for any further travel. The caravan decided to stop in a small clearing, parking their wagons in a wide circle, and starting a fire in the center of them. Several men carried over what appeared to be a pig carcass, and skewered it on a spit over the fire, turning it over now and then to cook evenly. Other men rolled out some logs around the fire to sit on, while some lounged on thick animal furs spread on the ground. Having set up camp to their liking the men started passing around flasks, their conversation growing louder and rowdier with every sip.

The smell of the pig roasting on the fire wafted into my nostrils, and my stomach growled in reply. I hoped that they would slice off even a small piece for me, but I knew it was doubtful. Thinking I could perhaps get some benefit from the fire’s warmth I walked as far as the chain would allow. Even with the length completely extended I still couldn’t get close enough to the flame to feel much of its heat. So I trudged back to the wagon, and sat down with my back against one of the wheels again.

A cool breeze whistled by cutting through my thin, muddy, blood soaked, pajamas and I shuddered. I rubbed my arms where goosebumps had formed there, as best I could with bound hands, and kept my teeth from chattering by cursing under my breath. I hated the cold.

I longed for my cozy cotton sheets, and the steaming cup of tea I’d enjoyed earlier that evening. Come morning I knew I’d be missing my fluffy robe, and my convenient single-serve coffee maker.

I’m missing them now, I thought as I hugged my knees to my chest. I missed my squashy recliner with its slightly frayed arm rests. My mermaid bathroom had never seemed so inviting as when I had to squat behind the wagon, or worse when I wasn’t allowed to stop, and had to relieve myself down the leg of my pants as we moved onward. Even sitting in my little leased car in rush hour traffic, with 3-day old Starbuck’s cups in the cup holders, would be preferable to this.

I felt a slight tickle in my nose, and let out a sneeze, followed quickly by another. My pants were still damp in some areas from today’s earlier rain, and my body felt achy. I prayed it was just from physical strain, and not the beginnings of pneumonia.

The men continued to drink, and talk amongst themselves, eagerly watching the pig cook over the spit. Eventually they pulled it from the fire and started slicing pieces of it off, passing some to each man around the campfire. It seemed there was somewhat of a hierarchy among them, as the Captain, the elf and the greasy-haired man from earlier all seemed to get the best cuts of meat, while others got progressively lesser qualities of meat and smaller portions. However everyone was welcome to help themselves to as many of the hard biscuits as they liked, as the lower ranking men were piling their metal plates with them. Well everyone except prisoners, it seemed.

My stomach growled loudly, so I laid down on the grass, on my side, with my back to the men around the fire. Out of sight, out of mind, perhaps. My stomach didn’t agree, however, and only rumbled louder. The frozen pizza from last night, laid not-so-elegantly on paper plates drifted through my mind. I groaned and shook my head to clear it. Only starvation can make frozen pizzas seem like a delicacy.

Footsteps from behind made me look over my shoulder. For a moment I feared it was the Captain coming to taunt me again, but I was surprised to see the boy from earlier, still wearing his blue cap, looking down at me. In one hand he held a dented metal cup, and in the other a ragged cloth with a small pile of the hard biscuits the other men were eating.

“F-for you, miss,” he stammered, looking just as nervous as he did this afternoon.

“Really?” I asked, but decided not to give him a chance to change his mind, and gratefully took both items from his hands. Immediately I took a long gulp from the cup –it was only water, but cool and refreshing- and right after I nibbled on one of the biscuits. They were indeed very hard, and tasted like nothing more than flour and salt. I remembered in my college US History class that Civil War soldiers often ate thick crackers made of water, salt and flour; they called it hard tack. It would fill one’s belly and last forever, but it wasn’t particularly appetizing. Neither were these, of course, but I was thankful to have something on my stomach.

“Thank you,” I mumbled around bites.

The boy nodded, but didn’t immediately leave.

“So I take it you’re kind of low in the ranks here,” I muttered.

The boy gave me an indignant frown.

“What makes you say that?” He folded his arms across his chest defensively.

I nodded towards the other men.

“They gave you a pretty low cut of meat…” I said, between bites. “Plus they sent you over here to bring me, erm, whatever this is…” I gestured with the biscuit in my hand.

He dropped his arms to his sides and his expression softened.

“I guess you’re right, miss,” he replied. “It takes a bit of effort to work ya’ way up.”

“How long have you been traveling with these…” I didn’t want to call them men, out loud. “This crowd?”

“Bout three months,” he replied, and sat down on the grass next to me.

“I guess that’s why you’re less of an asshole than the rest of them,” I shrugged.

That same hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips again, but never grew to anything beyond a smirk.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Sixteen,” he replied. Even younger than I had thought. “I’ll be seventeen in about a month, I think.”

“You think?” I asked.

He shrugged. “You lose track of days out travelin’, miss. I’m just guessin’ at what day of the month it is.”

I found myself smiling around the just-palatable-enough biscuits. He was a simple young man, but not unpleasant. He reminded me vaguely of a teenage boy who worked the cash register at my local supermarket. Always polite, but never particularly friendly. He was, however, fast-working and reliable. Clearly a high school kid trying to earn just enough money to buy gas.

“Why are they doing this to me?” I asked.

The boy looked away and seemed very interested in a particular blade of grass suddenly.

“They want to sell you, miss,” he replied.

“I know that,” I grumbled. “But why are they treating me like this? If I’m such ‘valuable goods’ wouldn’t they want to be a little more… erm… careful? Why chain me up like a dog? Why drag me through the mud? Why practically starve me? Why not even stop to let me use the bathroom? I’m certainly not going to look very appealing at the market when they try to sell me –if I even make it there alive at all with this treatment!”

“They’ll clean you up and feed you when we get to town,” the boy said. “They just don’t want to waste their rations on you while out in the woods.”

I tried not to dwell on the word “waste” and instead kept drilling him for more answers.

“I guess I’m not much dirtier than the rest of them,” I said.

He almost-smiled at me, again.

“But I won’t be worth much if I’m dead –clean, dirty or otherwise…” I grumbled, then paused as a fluttery feeling churned in my stomach that was not caused by hunger. Was I so sure that I was worth more alive than dead?

The boy’s nervous expression was not comforting.