That night, Enkilae remembered
He dug through the silt of thirty years, pulling up the memories of where he had come from and the ghost of how it all used to be. That was nothing new for him. After a brutal, skin-flaying day labor, he had always retreated into his own mind. He did it awake, staring at the dark canvas of the salve pen, or in the brief, fitful slumbering rest he was occasionally allowed before the overseer's horn blew.
He always marched back to the tales of his youth. It was a simple thing: that was the only time in his life he had ever been happy, so he did not mind recalling it. Enkilae could not remember a single drop of joy after the iron collars went on, but his mind clung desperately to the days when the Uthahia still strode the endless northern plains on their great horses, bred their prize mares and their fat sheep, and occasionally served the oil-fucking emperor in his foreign wars. Back when they were free even when they were not.
