Two days, the old bull has been tethered here. No food, no water, nobody coming-- no master, no other slaves, nobody to buy it.

The chain attached to the yoke around its neck is heavy and short. If it were to pull, the length wouldn’t reach the door.

But it doesn’t pull. It won’t pull. Too many failed escapes in the past, when it was a foolhardy, desperate young calf, taught it not to.

So there it sat, uncomfortably laid in its cramped stone quarters. Perhaps Master grew sick of it. Found a younger, better Taurean. One untouched by the passage of time and brutal treatment and a seemingly endless cycle of masters. One that wasn’t so busted up.

Or perhaps this was a punishment. For what, the bull doesn’t know. It didn’t rebel; hadn’t in many decades. It keeps up with its quota in the field, even if it was slower nowadays. It can’t help being slow. Everything hurts.

It doesn’t know. It doesn’t understand. Humans and their reasonings are far beyond a stupid old cow.

With a low huff through its nose, it tries to lay down. The thin layer of straw is paltry comfort… but if it closes its eyes, it can imagine soft, green grass. A body not riddled with marks and scars and brandings. Clean, fresh water. An endless blue sky above it, no walls or chains to confine, no whips or clubs or harnesses or human hands to bring pain.

It can dream.