There were no tangible chains to keep him in bondage.
They were not needed. His own powerlessness was a heavy enough yoke around his neck.
He had sorcery, learned from the one who had stolen his name from him and left him a slave: him, once the master benevolent and wise, the revered and sacred (what was he?), the young and proud. Small, petty magics were all that remained in his grasp. He made illusions, called up wind, purified water. He sensed the sicknesses in the beings around him, their injuries and diseases and madnesses, and he washed them away. But this was not power--or rather, it was like vapor on the surface of his being, the river of true power within untouched and untapped. Only pieces of truth, impotent.
He was nameless, homeless, friendless. Despair was a coldness inside him, ever-growing. The river felt frozen.
And then--a warmth. A voice. A face.
It was a young girl, courageous, luminescent. Her soul was a brilliant guiding light. He knew her--he knew not how--and she gave him joy.
She gave him his name.
The yoke fell away. He flew.