Special Chapter
(A memoir of a time before the blood…) My age was a thing of mystery. I felt I was seven or perhaps eight years old, but my father, Velvean, treated me as if I were but six. In those days, I was living with them, trying to turn the trauma of my past into a new kind of happiness. Today was to be my first day at the school. A great nervousness washed over me as I stood before the teaching area, my heart filled with a mix of joy and fear. I stood by the wall, listening. Kekin Das, our master, was teaching a lesson in an ancient language. "The world 'Pasrel'," his voice drifted out, "has a history of two thousand years. It began with a mythical presence, when the almost immortal demon king, Lord Vortannis, seized this place. The land was then called 'Phaserel.' Over a thousand years, the pronunciation forged itself into 'Pasrel.' Our historians recall the meaning of 'Phaserel' in the old Yakil tongue as 'Peace in Realism.' But setting aside the myths, we have a clear history of eight hundred years…" I listened to all of it, trying to digest the words. It was tough, for I could barely read the common Schrothic scriptures, and now I was thrown into the deep waters of history. Master Kekin Das noticed me then, a small shadow lurking by the entrance. He called out with a warm voice. "Hey, Morass! Come in, come in! Why do you stand out there? Are you afraid of us, lad?" Being so nervous, I could not say a thing. I could barely speak. Most Pasrelian children begin their schooling at the age of four, and here I was at six, or even older. Kekin broke the silence. "Listen, everyone! This is Morass Demorel. From now on, he is with us. And he will catch up with all our lessons, won't you, Morass?" I waved my head to say yes, my eyes fixed on the floor. I could tell then that Kekin was a good man, one who would be gentle with me. I started my learning, catching phrases from the Schrothic language. But none of the other children would speak to me. They did not include me in their games. Why? I asked one of them, but he just ran away. I overheard whispers… that I was rich. Was that the reason? Or did they think my father, Velvean, was an evil man? I did not know. The only person in that school I liked, the only one who showed me kindness, was Kekin Das. Then one day, he was gone. He had died, they said, anonymously. They could not even find his body. How? By the gods, how does a man just vanish? My mind tried to grasp it, but I could not get over it as everyone else seemed to do. He had meant something to my life. Then, a strict master named Djoj came to lead us. What a strange name that was. This new master was philosophical, and the things he said were like riddles I could not decode. For fun, or perhaps out of a deep sadness, I asked him a question in front of the class. "Master, why does no one talk about Sir Kekin anymore? Is there no sign of justice? His body was never found… there is no gratitude for his teaching. He meant something to me, something deeper… I can feel it. And… why do people change so fast? Why do they forget?" Everybody there began to laugh at my question, as if I had cracked a grand joke. Confused, I even started to laugh with them for a moment. Master Djoj called for silence, his face like stone. Then he answered, his eyes on me. "You liked him, did you not? Yes, you did. And all the others here had nothing to do with him, including myself. Do you see the difference?" "Is it the situation?" I asked. "The situation?" He gave a small, humourless smile. "A nice try, boy. But it is you. It is us. Situations change, and some people change with them. But some, like you, stick to their feelings like a leech. It is all about who you see as having a life of worth. For those who do not fit into that picture… well, they are forgotten. People only speak of them on occasion, if at all." The other children started laughing at me again, calling me "Leech Boy." I was walking home, thinking of what had happened, when a voice came from behind me. "Hey. That was a nice question you asked. You should ask more like that." I turned my eyes, and that was my first introduction to Charel Gorse. A nice boy, worth talking to. He started a friendship with me. Playing games with him wasn't truly possible, for he could not walk properly. He said he had been attacked by some soldiers when he was very young. So, we talked instead. We talked every day.
(The present, a world of blood and fear…) Today, my wrists are drenched in dried blood. My mouth tastes of it. The death of my father happened four days ago. I have not eaten much, other than trash from the gutters. The gods have truly forsaken me. Now I am in that same ground again, where children play. Boys are kicking a leather ball. I am approaching them. One of them sees me and his face twists in terror. I do not know the reason. I only approached them to play, to beg for a piece of bread. I am not rich anymore. I am a fucking poor, fatherless son. "It's him!" one of them screamed. "The killer's son!" They started to run from me. I do not know if my non-existent money terrified them, or the blood on my clothes, or the stories they had been told. The situation was not the same. I was just like them now, a boy with nothing. Why had they not changed? Soldiers are upon me. I run, terrified, hiding in some thick tree branches, my heart hammering against my ribs. I have done nothing wrong. I have done nothing wrong! As I hide, I see the face of Charel's father, Roren Gorse, in my mind. I saw him on that terrible day, right after… right after Charel died. In my terror, I remembered he had offered me water and milk, his face etched with confusion, not yet knowing what had happened. He had been kind. I can see Roren's trauma now, and I am pretty sure his kindness would turn to hatred if he knew the truth. There is a cart, a bullock cart, rumbling down the dirt path. I see it, and I run towards it. With the last of my strength, I jump into the back. Some people are sleeping inside, on piles of straw. My jump startles them, and they wake with angry shouts. Thinking a wild animal has come upon them, one of them kicks me hard, again and again, until I break my silence with a cry of pain. The bullock cart owner comes from the front. "Oy! What are you doing? Kicking the arse of a boy?" "Didn't mean to, boss," one of the men grumbled. "Don't know where this little shit came from." "Shut your mouths and stay in your handcuffs, all of you," the owner snapped. He looked down at me, his face weathered and rough. "Well now, boy. Where are you from? How long you been in here? Running from something? Did you kill anyone?" I couldn't answer. I just looked at him, my eyes pleading to let me stay. He grunted and brought me to the front seat, near him. I do not know where we are headed, but my only thought is that I am not going back to the central region. Half the day passed. I ate some leftovers the owner shared with me, while he kept asking me questions. I did not answer any of them. Suddenly, the cart stopped. A royal guard of Pasrel stood in the road. "What's your name, sire?" the guard asked. The bullock cart owner replied calmly, "Zegen Graths." "Have you seen a boy," the guard asked, holding his hand up, "about four feet tall? This big?" He was showing my exact height. The guard's eyes fell on me. "Who's that boy?" The owner put a hand on my shoulder. "My son. Crugur Graths." The guard narrowed his eyes. "Why is he bleeding?" "A fight between friends," Zegen Graths said smoothly. "And he won't say their names. You know how boys are." The guard leaned closer, his voice low and serious. "Listen up, man. The boy we are looking for is four feet tall. He killed his friend, his maid, and tried to kill a royal vanguard. If this is the one, don't mess with the high command." "He's my son, of course," Zegen said, and with a swift movement, he passed something shiny and precious into the guard's hand. The guard's fingers closed around it. "Alright then," the guard said, his tone changed. "You may go. Where are you heading?" "Sydiska," the owner replied. It was a place on the border between Pasrel and the kingdom of Solia, a place beyond the King of Pasrel's immediate reach. We started moving again. Once the guard was out of sight, Zegen Graths turned to me. His face was hard. "You owe me," he said, his voice flat and cold. "You owe me for your life. Now, you have to be my slave." Of course. That is how every scenario like this ends. But this man… he saved me. He gave me food. He gave me a new name. It was an odd thing to do, to save a boy only to ask for his slavery, especially with a cart already full of slaves. But my life was no longer my own. It had a price now, and I had just been sold to pay it.