Bred for war - 1. Two worlds

City of Marnara Prime, Capital of Athra, homeworld of the Athruvian Empire

Some years ago. Before dinner.

The child was on his own, as most of the time these days, in his bedroom. He was playing war with his little toy soldiers, a game he really enjoyed since he was much younger. He’d arranged them in lines opposite from each other. On his table, there were green soldiers that represented the Ç’HkïJaråan, the enemy. Across from them on the table were the purple figures that represented the Athruvians, his people, the good guys.

He stood across from the green soldiers and threw a tiny crystal ball, which rolled over the table and went all the way through the floor, taking down four enemy soldiers.

“Take that, you filthy Ç’HkïJaråan!” he yelled at the enemy jumping triumphant at having killed four enemy soldiers.

He liked playing war when there was still daylight, for the refraction of the sun rays through the crystal ball made him imagine the explosions as the soldiers went down. He walked to the opposite side of the table and retrieved the ball from the floor. He threw it again; the ball rolled over the table towards the Athruvians, the purple soldiers, this time taking down three purple figures.

“Damn, you, dishonorable people!” he muttered this time at having lost three of his good guys.

“Dal!” his grandma’s voice came from the living room, “Dal, come here! It’s dinner time!”

“Coming gramma!” the seven year old said as he picked the ball to place it in the center of the table, postponing the battle for some time after dinner.

“We’ll even the score later on, you Ç’HkïJaråan animals!” he yelled as he was leaving the room to join his grandmother at the dinner table.

Dal really liked his gramma’s house. This room, for example, was mostly wooden and the furniture had lovely purple fabric; purple was definitely his favorite color. There were huge windows in the dining room. His gramma always said a good dining room ought to have windows, to let the light come in and pour its goodwill energy over them. He didn’t really know about energy, but he liked the feeling inside this house. It felt like home, even though his parents were so far away now, as they were most of the time, what with war and everything.

His grandmother on his father’s side was setting the table. Dal sat and looked at her as she finished placing the silverware. He thought his gramma didn’t really look like a grandmother; actually, she looked very very young to him. Most of his friends’ grandmothers had gray hair all over, but not his gramma. She didn’t even have wrinkles, not that he could tell.

From the kitchen, the smell of a Nahri stew came and filled his nosetrills. Nahri stew was by far his favorite dish, and his gramma was a great cook. He looked at her intently, feeling his stomach churn after the smell. Gramma went into the kitchen and then came back with a pot of stew. She stood by Dal’s side and served him. Then, she served for herself and went back into the kitchen to place the pot back.

Then, she came back and sat next to him. Dal was filling the spoon with stew already, eager to bring it to his mouth, when gramma stopped him.

“Aren’t you forgetting something, Dal?

The chubby kid looked at his grandmother askance. The Athruvian woman looked at him tilting her head a bit to the right and making forcefully serious gesture.

“Oh!” the kid said all smiles, “my prayers, I’m forgetting to say my prayers!”

“Yes you are, young man.” gramma said.

Dal took his right hand to his forehead, closed his eyes and started his prayer.

“Dear Gods who are in heaven,” he said with his eyes closed tight, “I thank you for the meal we are going to have right now. Thanks for mom and dad and thanks for gramma. I ask you, dear Gods, to kill all the Ç’HkïJaråan to finish the war so that mom and dad can come home. May it be.”

“May it be.” the woman said as her grandson finished his prayer.

Then, they started dinner in silence. Gramma looked at Dal and couldn’t help but smile; he reminded her so much of her son, his father when he was his age. Da Lahron, however, seemed more attuned with war, a matter of the times they were living no doubt. Still, he was a lovely kid. When they were halfway through with the meal, somebody knocked on the door. Dal jumped from his seat, eager to go see who was at the door, but his grandmother gestured for him to stay put.

“I’ll get it, dear,” she told him smiling, “you keep on eating all right?”

“Yes, gramma.”

He heard Gramma’s steps moving away from the dining room and heading into the living room. The knocking repeated itself, and then he heard the door opening. He heard mumbling, as if the people in the next room were whispering to each other, but he carried on with his meal. Then he heard a muzzled moan, he thought it had been Gramma’s and he got scared.

As quickly as was possible for his short legs, Dal jumped from the chair and sprang into the living room. Gramma had sat down on the small couch facing the entrance, and there were a couple of military men, though he did not know their ranks. Gramma’s skin was pale, so pale her face looked almost white, and he had the impression she’d aged a decade as she sat there.

“Gramma?” he called.

His grandmother turned to look at him and stood up from the couch.

“Go on to the dining room, dear,” she said, trying to sound as calm as possible, but he knew something was wrong, “I’ll be with you shortly, darling.”

Dal went back to the dining room reluctantly. The people in the living room kept whispering and he kept on eating. He tried really hard to hear what they were saying; he even closed his eyes, but no matter how hard he tried he could not make out the conversation.

Then there was silence.

Then he heard the door closing.

Then he heard his gramma’s steps coming closer.

Gramma came into the dining room; she was still as pale as when he had left. She looked at him, but did not say a word.

“Gramma?”

The woman opened her mouth as if to say something, but no word came to her lips. She only stared, her face changing gestures as if trying to find the words.

“Gramma?” Da Lahron asked again.

“I’m sorry, Dal,” she said devastated, “I’m so, so very sorry dear…”

She opened her arms and Da Lahron jumped down from the chair and into her arms. He hugged her tight, gramma caressing his hair, trying to comfort him. She didn’t need to say anything, Dal knew she didn’t know how to tell him, but he knew, he knew!

He didn’t know when he’d started, but he was sobbing in his gramma’s embrace. He felt like something was tearing apart his insides, but he really did not know what to say, what to ask, how to react.

“The outpost where they were serving,” his grandmother started, still holding him tight against herself, “it was destroyed four hours ago … they’d … they’d been under fire ….”

The woman had to swallow and clear her throat to bring some composure to her voice. She had to be strong for him, because she was now everything he had left in the world.

“They’d been under enemy fire for two days … and today .…”

“No, no, no!” Da Lahron screamed “It’s not true! It’s not true! Youre lying! I hate you! I hate you!”

The woman’s throat tightened in a knot. She didn’t know what to tell him. His pain was breaking her heart; after all, he’d just lost both his parents. She knew he didn’t hate her. She also knew it would take him a long time to forget this day … if he ever did.

“I’m here, honey,” she told him in a soothing voice, “I’m here with you.”

He kept sobbing until his sobs became softer and softer, his gramma holding him and caressing his hair.

“I don’t hate you, gramma,” he said, his own words cut and interrupted by his sobbing and sighing.

“I know, darling, I know,” the woman told her grandson, “I know you’re angry. It’s O.K. to be angry.”

“I hate them. I wish all the Gods killed the Ç’HkïJaråan! All of them!” he yelled in his gramma’s arms, “I wish they all died! I hate them! I HATE THEM ALL!!!!

Dal kept crying in his grandmother’s arms until the exhaustion made him fall asleep. The Athruvian woman carried her grandson to his bedroom and placed him on his bed. She carefully took off his shoes and covered him with the blankets. He looked so young, so innocent, and so alone.

She caressed his undone purple hair and kissed him in the forehead. He was asleep now. She was glad that he was, for when the morning came, the pain would come back. And it would never go away. She came out of her grandson’s bedroom and she walked down the lonely hallway to her own room.

Once there, she allowed herself the luxury of falling apart. She fell over her rocking chair and started crying, as silently as possible. She had lost her youngest son and her daughter in law. There was now a big hole in her heart. This was wrong and she knew it! A parent should not have to outlive a son. It was against every law of nature. But then again, it had been the Ç’HkïJaråan who had killed her youngest son, her beloved son. She hoped in silence that someone would make them pay, make them pay for her suffering and that of her grandson.

‘Someday .…’ she thought as tears ran down her cheeks, ‘someday revenge will be ours. May it be .…’

_____________

City of Ç’håk H’J∂iar, Capital City of the Ç’HkïJaråan Republic

Some years ago. Sometime after breakfast.

KwAb’haYa Mar’gHtïo looked at his son as he played in the patio of their country house. He felt pain in his heart, for the time was coming for them to part. They would part for a very long time. Ever since his son had been born, he’d tried to ignore the fact that this day would come, but now it finally had. Today his son would be thirteen, and thus, eligible for training in the Qaudrat. Once he was taken, he would see very little of his son. At least until he’d finished his training and that wouldn’t happen until he was 17. There would be no celebration, for he did not want to make it more difficult for his son.

DhiM’kha was second born son, and he’d been a blessing since his birth. He was so clever, so polite and such a tender kid. Nothing had made him happier since his wife died than to care for DhiM’kha; and now they were going to take him away from him. He was just a kid, barely thirteen!

‘No,’ he thought as he sat on the garden chair outside their country manor and sipped from his drink, ‘not a kid anymore…at least, not for the Me’Hbar-E.’

He did not want to part with DhiM’kha, but there was nothing he could do about it, it was the law in times of warfare. He himself had stamped his signature aproving that particular law some years before which declared that every thirteen year-older was to be taken into military training at the closest Qaudrat; and that very law was now backfiring at him. War had been going on for several years now, more than anybody cared to remember. DhiM’kha was now one of the thirteen-year-old kids who had to go to the Qaudrat and become a soldier. There was nothing he could do about this situation.

The sun was almost in the zenith but he had not gone to work. He’d taken the day off. Being Head of the Ruling Council of the Ç’HkïJaråan was no easy task and could lead to a very exhausting day. However, it also had its benefits. This time he’d taken advantage of those little privileges he had and he’d taken the day off; mostly because he wanted to be home when the Me’Hbar-E came to pick up his son.

“Dad?” DhiM'kha called approaching Mar’gHtïo, “Look, dad! Look what I found!”

KwAb'haYa Mar’gHtïo stood from the garden chair and walked towards his son. DhiM’kha came closer extending his hand palm up to show his father what he’d found. There was an insect on his palm, a hard shelled black-and-blue eight-centimeter-long beetle with two strong looking appendages on its head.

“A construction beetle,” his father said, “aren't you supposed to be packing?”

“I’m gonna name it Karh’Jan, like my best friend, the one who died last year.”

His father’s face turned somber, and without previous warning slapped DhiM'kha's hand.

“Daddy?” he asked him, the beetle face upwards on the floor.

“Your military training is about to begin, DhiM'kha, and you're thinking about naming a ridiculous construction beetle. Go to your room and get ready. Now!”

DhiM’kha felt his stomach turn. He knew this day would come eventually, but he had wanted to forget it would be today. He did not want to leave his house. The Qaudrat scared him and scared him big time … but what scared him the most was knowing that he would not see his father for a long time.

“Yes, dad,” he said trying to keep his tears from rolling down his face as he turned to walk towards his room.

This was the law, DhiM’kha knew. His older brother had also gone to the Qaudrat when he was supposed to, and he was now a full fledge officer. There was probably nothing to be afraid of, but he had never been to the Qaudrat and he didn’t what to expect. It was good to know that he would someday be an officer too, just like his brother. And then, just then, he’d be able to avenge his mother’s death and make things right for his family. He decided it was for the best.

With tears already rolling down his cheeks, he ran to his bedroom. To his surprise, his things were already been packed, and the suitcase was already on his bed, partially opened, in case he wanted to pack something else, something personal. He thought of bringing a couple of things nobody could’ve packed for him: his mother’s medal, which he always kept under his pillow; and Rem’Na, the allmighty, his favorite bedtime story, the one his father used to read him when he was still a toddler.

He sat down on his bed, knowing he wouldn’t do it again for a long time. For all he knew, he might never ever do it again He looked at the garden through the huge window and smiled. He’d spent so many wonderful times back there, and he thought he could remember them all. He was still looking when he heard the bells of the door ring, and he knew it was time; the Me’Hbar-E had come for him. His stomach turned upside down once again and, for the very first time, he knew it was real: he’d go to the Qaudrat to begin his military training.

His father appeared by the door, and DhiM’kha looked at his father with obvious apprehension in his gesture.

“They’re here, my son.”

DhiM’kha nodded and stood up from the bed. He took his suitcase and started walking towards the door. But when he was two steps from where his father stood, he dropped the suitcase and hugged him.

“Don’t let them take me, please dad! Please, don’t let them! Please! Please!”

DhiM’ka’s father did not hug him back but kneeled so that he could face DhiM’ka, and held him by the shoulders looking him in the eye.

“Listen to me, DhiM’kha,” his father said, a thick expression on his face, “we’ve been through this, and you know you have to go. It is the law and it is what it’s supposed to be.”

“But, father …”

“Have you forgotten your duty to your people? Have you forgotten your mother?”

He did not answer for he didn’t know what to say. Of course he had not forgotten his mother, even though he’d never met her. And he knew he had a duty to his people, what with war and all. But the only thing he had clear in his mind was that he did not want to leave his father, he did not want to leave his house, and he did not want to go to the Qaudrat. He was SCARED!

“No, dad,” he said, struggling with himself so as not to cry, “I have not forgotten mother.”

“Then you will do this … you have to do this for her … for her memory.”

“I know, dad.”

He hugged his father once again. He felt the tears welling up in his eyes, but he did not fight them; he cried this time. He let it all out, for he wouldn’t be able to cry once in the Qaudrat, he did not want the other recruits to think he was a coward.

“I wish there was no stupid war!” he said, still crying and holding on to his father, “I wish all the Athruvians were dead. I wish they were all eliminated from existence.”

“I know,” his father said, holding him tight, “but wishing does not fix the situation, DhiM’ka, acting does. So, if you really want this to be over, you have to act on your duty.”

“Yes dad, I do, don’t I?”

“Yes.” He paused and looked at DhiM’kha and then stood up, “Get ready, I’ll tell the officers that you’ll join us soon in the living room.”

“Yes, dad.”

When his father was gone, DhiM’kha wiped the tears from his eyes. He looked once more through the window of his bedroom and heaved a sigh. He took the suitcase and walked outside the door, wishing all the Athruvians were dead.

‘When I’m an officer,’ he thought with conviction and hate in his heart, ‘I’m gonna kill them all, I’m gonna make them pay for all their crimes. And there will be no Athruvian left standing to fight us. I’m gonna kill up to the last one of them.’