The one thing you had to get used to while living in the desert is the fact that sand gets everywhere. The job of sweeping the floors was never ending and exhausting. Maybe that's why they always made him do it. It was a change, strong calloused hands used to wielding weapons now commanded the handle of a soft cloth broom. Broad shoulders and packed muscles ached with the effort of continuing the constant motion. Sweeping may not have required strength, but he'd been less sore after a thorough beating than after spending hours upon hours sweeping the floors. After he first came here, he'd been sore in places he hadn't even known existed. After a month, he was getting used to it at last.
It felt like a life time ago. Not for the first time, he mulled over that fateful day.
A day that started just like any other day in the arena slave pens. Practice, breakfast, practice, lunch, practice, then the wait. He had been expecting the slave handler to come in and announce who would b