Private Tales Bleak Beginnings

[Alakir]

Vel Anir, 347

"Again."

The stick was heavier every time he swung it. The bruising had blossomed into blisters, and his face appeared like it might twist up from the constant stinging. Alakir struck the wooden dummy again, because he knew.

Whatever pain he felt now, however uncomfortable he was, the alternative was worse. "You're slowing down," his father snapped. "Slow down on a battlefield, see how far it gets you."

Whenever he was alone, Alakir prayed that he might develop a talent. Magical power in Vel Anir meant they came for you and snatched you out of your home. It would have meant freedom. But the spark never came.

"Stay in your stance!" came the harsh reprimand. The lancing heat of a switch against his calves almost sent him sprawling. "Concentrate entirely on staying upright. An enemy who takes your footing takes your life."

"Father, I'm not old enough to join the Guard," he whined. "There's years before I have to start training. The other boys are playing in the square, and I was hoping-"

The switch caught him across the face as his father's rage turned on him entirely. "You want to go play?" he roared. "Not old enough for training? To think a son of mine might utter such things!"

The boy hit the cobblestones in a heap. He did not cry out. Alakir knew what happened if he cried.

"Get up!" his father grabbed his shoulder and lifted him upright. "Get up, I said!"

Blood drained from his nose and his face burned red where he hit the ground, face first. His father sneered. "That's right, you're up now. And don't let me hear any more of this nonsense about playing in the square."

"Yes, father." The words were hollow, practiced.

"Go inside, get cleaned up. Dinner should be ready soon. Then, I'll read you a story about the Guard. How does that sound?"

Alakir felt numb as he hobbled toward the trough and ladled out water. The cold liquid burned as it washed over his sounds, and the acrid metallic taste turned his stomach. He plunged his face into the trough, and opened his mouth wide.

Every time he had to do it, he submerged himself a bit longer. Each time, he was a bit less afraid of what might happen if he never came up for air.

He always came back up, though.

"Maybe she's made meat pies again," Alakir murmured absently. He fixed his thoughts on pleasant things and pressed aside the things he hated. "A meat pie would be right nice, I think."

When he stepped inside, his mother dove on him. "What is this?" she boomed. "You've got a deep cut, what were you doing?"

"I fell," he shrugged. He did not look to affirm the glare his father had fixed him with. He could feel it just fine.

"Fell? Looks like someone took a knife to your face, it does!" She lifted her handkerchief and blotted the red away. "Did you get in a fight with one of the neighbor boys?"

"No, mum," Alakir sighed. "I'm fine. Promise."

"Settle in then," she gestured toward the table. "And keep this tight to your cheek til the blood stops. We're having stew for dinner."

 

[Alakir]

349- Two years later

His mother took ill sometime during his sixth year, and did not last the Winter. After he turned seven, Alakir's father spent what time he was not training with the boy on errands, and when he returned home the stench of booze clung to him. The boy had learned to let the days run their course, and that questions almost always led to pain. It was a lesson that his father said would serve him well when he finally enlisted.

"Sleep, boy," his father drawled as the door to Alakir's bedroom creaked open. "If you're not tired, you can train."

Restless though he was, the boy did not want to spend any more time than he already did in the yard. He lifted his arms and stared at the whelps that formed across them, skin hardened into knots that each held a bitter memory.

"What is the point of all this?" he asked his father in a tired voice.

"One day, you'll be the best damn soldier in all of Vel Anir," his father gurgled proudly. "Then, you'll thank me, I think."

"Are you proud?" Alakir asked him. "Of me? Have you ever been proud that I'm your son?"

"I'm thankful," his father said honestly. "Because you are my son, I have an opportunity to serve this great city."

He turned in his bed and pulled the sheet overhead.

"Good night, Alakir."

 

[Alakir]

Winter came again, and the boy was another year older. Still the cold cut to the bone, and still he lacked sufficient meat on his bones to suffer through it comfortably. The furs he and his father hunted during the summer dried and tanned, but they proved too thin to provide real warmth. Instead, Alakir had to huddle close to a lamp during the night to get any sleep at all.

His father was thoroughly inundated with booze, and so he never thought to complain except for when he wanted something done. In the early morning while the sun was still low, the boy would head to the border of Falwood to chop firewood to sell.

They had no chimney or proper stove of their own, but the woodcutting made for strength training and the money bought oil for his lamplight. That particular morning, his father was less awake than usual so Alakir was able to slip away much earlier and chop much more wood.

With what sold, he was able to pocket a few coins for himself. It was a noble enough pursuit: stray coins for a proper winter outfit. It was not until he made it to market that his smile faded.

"Boy," his Father barked. It was almost noon and he had not yet returned home. The reddened face and telltale slur of his sire's hangover spelled instant regret. "Where have you been? Where's the damn oil for our lamps?"

"I've just made it back and sold the firewood," he explained. It was not untrue, but it was not the whole truth. "I was just about to buy some."

"Bring here boy, let me see the money."

Alakir reached in his pocket and his father grabbed him by the wrist. "Here, let me." He struggled to pull away, but the deadlock on his wrist and the cold ultimately won. He relinquished all the money he had.

"I see you've been making an entrepreneur of yourself," his father observed.

"Just a few coins more than my usual take," he muttered.

"And what were you going to do with 'a few coins?"

"Just some extra furs."

"What, you didn't get enough during the hunts in the Summer?" His father rebuked. "You hunted to be warm, and now you find that it wasn't enough. If you need more furs, you hunt for them."

"All the animals hibernate in Winter," he protested. "The ones that don't, wolves and the like, are too dangerous to hunt alone."

"If you're not strong enough, then you don't deserve to wear their fur." His father appraised the coins and promptly pocketed them. "Let this be a lesson, son. Know what you need, plan for it, and execute. Fail to properly prepare, and it will cost you your life."

"So I'm to die while you spend the money I worked for on more booze?" he spat back angrily. "Piss on that. Cut your own damn wood and sell it."

"Who taught you to split wood, boy?" The older man stepped into his face and swelled up, almost intimidating but for his frailty. Alakir looked away. "Who gave you everything, and made you what you are? Who do you have to thank for surviving this long?"

"..."

"Now get home," his father growled in a low voice. "And there'll be no oil for you tonight. That's the price of disrespect."

"...yes, Father."

 

[Alakir]

He was almost nothing but bone by the time spring came again. The harsh winter wind relaxed into a soothing breeze, but the memory of the chill settled into his muscles. Some nights, Alakir would remark later, he even felt the icy tendrils of Winter during the longest, hottest Summer days. It was that memory that drove him forward.

"Never again," he promised himself. "I'll never be caught unprepared again."

The late Spring showers pattered on the rooftops as he strung his bow. The first hunt of the year was not far off, and every tool he needed had to be checked, fixed, and ready before it was upon them.

"You sure it's alright for you to string mine too?" Darla was a year older, but she wasn't quite so experienced as the boy already was. Most Anirians didn't start training until their teenage years, if not slightly before that. Alakir's father had mercilessly thrown him into it when he was barely five. Most of the Neighbor children knew it, too.

"Yeah," he shrugged. "You've only done it a handful of times, if it breaks because you did it wrong you'll only be scolded. Watch how I tie this end, then..."

It was only natural that he wanted to help his fellows. The Guard was a necessary part of their culture, and at some point, each of them would serve. It bound them together, and because of it, each of them had a reason to feel like part of a community. Somewhere in his gut, he hoped that through his experience, someone else might be spared the harshness his Father had shown him.

"There, all set."

When he handed her the bow, she smiled. It was a bright, thankful, and happy expression; but for Alakir, it seemed so far away. "You're a lifesaver," she told him. "I've just never been good at this kind of thing. Always figured I'd be able to get by as a bar wench, or some other modest kind of work."

"You should be proud," he said with a soft smile, eyes focused on the stone beneath his feet. "Everything we learn, everything we use, it's all to protect our way of life."

"You only have to serve a short term, you know," Darla laughed as she turned to leave. "It's not like being a career Guardsman is the only option you have. You can be anything you want, Al. Have you ever thought about it?"

"I want to serve Vel Anir," he stated flatly. There was no light in his eyes, but his face was set like stone. "I've only ever wanted to serve Vel Anir."

At some point, that had become his truth. He didn't question it at all, and he didn't want to. Even when the girl looked at him with a trace of pity in her expression, he held fast.

"Yeah, sure," she said quickly. "Thanks again for stringing my bow. I'll see you later."

"Yeah," he agreed. "Later."