Timonius Felicitum had been sold off as a slave to a larger estate, as his parents accrued no small debt.

An optimistic nine-year-old, he blew off the affair as 'no biggie.' After all, he had been sent to a convent, much like a boarding school, to be instilled with the tenets of Providence, and he did not last the whole year, but was returned after two months.

Yet indeed, after two months of working on a grueling farm, it becomes apparent he won't return home anytime soon. If there's one thing he hates most in this world, it's vegetables. There's nothing particularly awful about how vegetables taste, he just hates the concept of plants and how boring they are. They stay rooted in the ground and take several days to transform into something meaningful. There's also the part where his mother named him after an herb, so he hates his name.

And, he made the mistake of working hard in his first few weeks.

The supervisor is a decent man named Harcus. He organizes the kids' meals and tells stories in his free time. He wears a scraggly tunic and a moth-eaten sash across his shoulder, which indicates his laughable rank as a trusted serf on this stupid farm.

Regularly, Harcus turns the child slaves loose to fields, tasking them to pull weeds. On melon-field day, children of various ages, about six to twelve years old, were spread out amongst the trenches of melon plants, the fruits green and immature. They all wore the same simple threads, a cotton tunic and baggy pants. Most walked barefoot.

A particular newcomer caught his eye, who had the countenance of an ashen chestnut. Harcus was told that his mother, an herbalist, passed her affinity for plants onto him. He watched Timo perform. It was one thing to hear about, but another to see.

Every weed in his grasp decayed into dust, and so did all those in his vicinity if they shared the root system. Destroying weeds was easy for him, and probably the only plant-related activity he enjoyed. He got his section done early and goofed off the rest of the time. He digged for bugs, slept amongst vines, and wandered into the wilderness of undeveloped land.

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The rest of his peers bridled with envy. As all children interpret it, they too deserve recess. Harcus thought about his daughter's delicate hands. Every time he sees the rawness and blistering skin, Saela's fine nails chipping and packed with dirt, his heart aches.

Harcus observed for several days to confirm it was real and not some parlour trick. The children whined about Timo constantly. Could they shut up? Harcus can't do anything about serfdom. They must till the earth, and most people are born Igniarius without a lick of a green thumb.

Harcus approached the boy who sat relaxed in the dirt. "You have a talent for this, huh?"

Timo's stomach dropped. From the supervisor's tone, he knew exactly what was coming.

"Each should work according to their ability." Timo's a boy, he can handle it. "Here, why not help Saela?"

Saela is somewhat slender, but not so frail that she would disappear in a sneeze. Most girls look as grimy as the boys, the only difference being longer hair and longer obedience. Timo shuffled over and poked at the weeds reluctantly, a kind of crabgrass. Harcus lasered in on Timo, standing too close for comfort. "I know you're not doing as much as you can."

He weeded. It wasn't a big deal.

Over the next few days, Lazy-Weed girl believed she could command Timo. "Do the whole patch. You'll get whipped if you don't." Pretty soon, Timo's herbicide business flourished. The other kids digged for bugs, slept in vines, and wandered wild. If it wasn't done, guess who got whipped.

He once told Lazy-Weed, "You should help us, so we can all get done faster."

And she said, "You're the best at it, you should help the others."

Timo now works slowly on his tasks, often sparking the supervisor's ire. When Harcus gets mad, his eyes animate with fire, and when he sees Timo's unflinching face, his belt comes down faster. It turns out that Timo isn't much of a green thumb either, for the paltry fields stayed paltry; not a single garden has improved in greenery or grandeur. The slave trader probably lied.

Under duress with his own quotas, Harcus only knows how to discipline kids by whipping them, and he whips Timo the hardest. What other delinquent husks corn with massive welts on his palms? Or some days couldn't bend down to collect manure off the ground? Whipped outside, whipped inside. Whipped, whipped, whipped!