chapter one | of an untitled novel
part one | teiran
Surviving is a battle. It’s being stuck in a trench in the middle of two impossible sides. Behind you is the chance of living, of not fighting through every day. But it is barred, no person can go back. Yet in front of you is the rest of your life. The chance to run through the enemy’s land, risking your life from arrows and praying to God that none of them find their mark. You have to go forward, it’s not a choice. But it’s hardly possible that you will make it to the end without being torn apart and battle-scarred. The cards have been played, the die cast. I’m moving forward. Surviving is not a choice, but it is a chance.
I run. The Gatehouse is not so far from the schoolhouse, but I can’t afford to be even a moment late. My body speeds forward, until I come crashing into the school door, the force of my body blowing it open. The impact hardly raises a head from inside. Chaos is already beginning. I snatch up a chair from the corner, yank it towards the table, and pull my body onto it. My legs are trembling from the effort of running so hard, but I’m grinning proudly. I’m on time.
“Begin!”
The single word is hollered loud enough over the swarm of children that have surrounded the table. I shove forward, elbows pushing others back as I snatch a bowl and dip it into the pot at the middle of the table. There is always enough for everyone—unless you are late. I’m never late.
The thick stew fills my bowl, which, in turns, fills my stomach. I quickly grab a piece of bread as well, pulling myself back out of the crowd of children that surround me. Prize in hand, I turn towards the door, ready to leave. I never eat with the others, we all prefer it that way. But I don’t mind so much; the Gatehouse is quiet and small, perfect fit for a dinner for one.
It wasn’t always like this—a battle for food. I had used to eat at the table, too. But children change, things change, when you grow up. Suddenly different things are more important. The fact that the schoolhouse is also an orphanage might seem that I’m not the only one. But it’s not true. There are other orphans, of course—when are there not?—but they all came from families to be proud of, families whose reputations wouldn’t make the others push your face into the dirt. Like Sade—the little girl came from a respectable farmer who died in a barn fire. Sad, of course, but perfectly honourable. Or Jasek—the Cebet native with the dark face—his father was a soldier who died in battle, his mother in childbirth. They were both upstanding people in our village.
But no, not me. Of course, someone had to be different. There was always a pecking order, and someone has to be last. I can deal with bullies just fine, but I can’t handle their reasons for picking on me. It is because of my parents. Of who they were, of how I was born. I’m illegitimate. The half-blood of a barkeeper and his servant girl. And I can’t do anything to change that. I just hoped they loved each other, that it was worth it. Because of what they did, I’m not worth anything. So something should be.
I reach the Gatehouse, pulling the door shut with my foot as I collapse onto a chair. The stew is delicious, as always, and the bread is still warm. After my meal, I allow myself to sink deeper into my seat, pulling my knees to my chest. The familiar feeling of emptiness is back in my stomach, despite the fact that I just filled it. But it’s not the pangs of hunger, it’s a need for something different. I can’t figure out what. I want something, so bad I can almost taste it on my tongue, but it remains unknown. Is it change? A lineage to be proud of? The feeling that I belong? It is probably a mixture of all those things, but still something is missing. The feeling of being more—being full, being enough. I’m lacking that. I need that.
The bell on the outside gate clangs, drawing me back to the present. I drag my body off the chair, clutching my braid in one hand, and move towards the lever that will draw the gates open. Works continues; I think, my hand on the chain; will it ever end?
__
part two | dylan
Guilt is an infection. But for this, there is no cure. It spreads through your system, poisoning your bloodstream and affecting every part of your life. It wakes you up in the middle of the night, chest constricted and breathing tense, to haunt you with things you’ve done. It paralyzes you with memories of people you knew. It shows no mercy, no forgiveness. It is so deeply ingrained in my very being that I can hardly imagine living without it. It holds you back, drags you down, keeps you from living. It’s hardly likely that you will survive to the end without your body shutting down, your frame broken. You learn from your mistakes, but they torment you. Yet we continue forward, not knowing which other direction to turn.
Guilt is not a cure, but it is a chance.
I clutch their letter in my hand, skimming it over for the hundredth time. We have a new assignment for you, it reads. One that will take you away from your current post. Please do recall the oath you made to us, or have you forgotten? You promised to be there in our time of need. Do not disappoint us. This mission relies on you. Your goal or your honour—the choice is yours. Can we trust you, Dylan?
Can we trust you? The last line echoes in my mind. I have heard those words before. Where have I heard those words before?
My shoulders freeze. I’ve remembered. I quickly try to close the memory, to shut it down. But it pushes up. Plays itself over and over again in my mind. I can see it clearly, the mental imagine seems almost real.
Can we trust you, Dylan? Can we trust you?
Guilt hangs heavy, dragging me down. Shame tightens my collar. Regret shackles my wrists.
General Dunn always said that I had an eye for a bluff, that I could spot truth in a thief’s gaze or a lie in the mouth of a merchant. So why did it take me so long to spot his deceit? Why did I let myself be carried along? I curse myself and my foolishness, seeing where it has brought me. I raise my fists to my temples, pressing them together as if I could force out the memories of things I’ve done. But there’s no forgetting. Only condemnation and memories.
With a thud, I push myself to my feet and plant my boots in the dirt. My sword hangs heavy at my belt. I can remember it, its glorified point glossy and stained with the colour of rust as I stood over—
No. No, I wouldn’t go there. I cross my room, hardly noting the grand furnishings that I used to admire. No, their novelty had long worn off. They were just another part of my life now—another part of the act. But it had been in vain. The letter I held in my clenched hand had changed everything. I lean against the mantle of the crackling fireplace, my fist pressed to my forehead. Of course I wanted things to change, that’s the only reason I held my position. But I wanted to be the one to change them. Not be dragged down by an oath I had made long ago. My eyes glazed over, I had been staring into the churning flames too long.
Your goal or your honour? the letter had read. I sigh, feeling heavy. My goal or my honour—which would it be? I hesitate, the letter dangling tantalizingly from the tips of my fingers. The tongues of fire lick up hungrily. Your goal, they seem to crackle. You are so close now. Why give up on everything you’ve ever worked for? Goal, goal, goal.
The letter hung, unbalanced. It seemed to lean over the edge of my finger, falling down, down down—
At the last possible second, I snatch it up, blowing away the heat that flickered from a corner of the paper. I throw it onto my desk in disgust.
“Honour,” I respond out loud. “I choose honour.”
__
part three | taj
Fear is a prison. It lures you in, leaving no other option, and slams the bars down. It erases every thought of reason, banishes clear thinking. There is no escape route, no back up plan, no way to safety. It is in control; your revolts and refusals mean nothing. It forbids us from fighting back because we’re terrified of the pain. It prevents us from taking a chance, because we’re frightened of the unknown. It keeps us from living, because we’re scared of all the possibilities that could put us in danger. Yet we trudge forward, fear latching to our chests. It drags around our ankles, settles down on our consciences, winds itself around our throats. But we continue forward.
Fear is not a comfort, but it is a chance.
My boots crash like thunder with each step I take. With soldiers on either side of me—men I have seen growing up beside me, seen at their worst and their best, seen die—our troop makes their way to the courtyard. My breathing is heavy, each bone in my body wants to pull away and run in the opposite direction. The hallway is narrow, just fitting three abreast. It seems to taper as we go along, growing thinner and thinner, until it can only fit myself. I am walking through the hallway—now a tunnel—alone. Rock presses in on my right and my left, it brushes against my hair. My shoulders shake, hands tremble. No, I can’t be back here.
“Taj!”
I jump, almost expecting my head to dash against the ceiling. Instead, I find myself surrounded again, moving with something bigger than myself. I shake my head against the clouding inside.
“Taj?” The voice calling my name is closer.
I turn. Collide with the man behind me. They swarm around my body, but I fight backwards. I recognize that voice. It’s someone I haven’t heard for years. Suddenly I see him.
“Dylan!” My face breaks into a smile as he approaches.
He charges into me, the impact of his shoulder hitting mine sends a rattle through my spine. I chuckle in disbelief, clapping him on the shoulder.
“I knew it was you,” I shouted above the noise. “What in Tarzot’s name are you doing here?”
His face is wide open, the familiar features showering me with memories of days long ago. Days without war; without the nagging feeling that you were doing something wrong; days where each moment together was a friendly competition, just trying to win. And then he did. He won everything that mattered. And we had been torn apart.
“I was sent to Crey outpost,” he exclaims. “The boys there were talking about you—got into a scrape with General Dunn, I hear?”
I flush, ducking my head. “I was hoping to forget that.”
He laughs, throwing an arm around my shoulder as we continue with the crowd.
“Always seem to run into some sort of trouble, isn’t that just like you.”
You have no idea, I think, but Dylan continues.
“I heard about this post, and I just knew. I knew I would find you here. So I got myself transferred. Imagine that!”
He throws his head back with a grin. I shake my head; this free and easy character was so out of place in this hole of hellions.
“Just in time for tonight,” Dylan says.
My smile falters. My stomach drops.
Tonight. How could I have forgotten? The familiar crawl of fear creeps along my back, tingling in my neck. I have to find a way to get out of here, before it’s too late. Before I’ve become part of this place—savage. Before they find out.
Surviving is a battle. It’s being stuck in a trench in the middle of two impossible sides. Behind you is the chance of living, of not fighting through every day. But it is barred, no person can go back. Yet in front of you is the rest of your life. The chance to run through the enemy’s land, risking your life from arrows and praying to God that none of them find their mark. You have to go forward, it’s not a choice. But it’s hardly possible that you will make it to the end without being torn apart and battle-scarred. The cards have been played, the die cast. I’m moving forward. Surviving is not a choice, but it is a chance.
I run. The Gatehouse is not so far from the schoolhouse, but I can’t afford to be even a moment late. My body speeds forward, until I come crashing into the school door, the force of my body blowing it open. The impact hardly raises a head from inside. Chaos is already beginning. I snatch up a chair from the corner, yank it towards the table, and pull my body onto it. My legs are trembling from the effort of running so hard, but I’m grinning proudly. I’m on time.
“Begin!”
The single word is hollered loud enough over the swarm of children that have surrounded the table. I shove forward, elbows pushing others back as I snatch a bowl and dip it into the pot at the middle of the table. There is always enough for everyone—unless you are late. I’m never late.
The thick stew fills my bowl, which, in turns, fills my stomach. I quickly grab a piece of bread as well, pulling myself back out of the crowd of children that surround me. Prize in hand, I turn towards the door, ready to leave. I never eat with the others, we all prefer it that way. But I don’t mind so much; the Gatehouse is quiet and small, perfect fit for a dinner for one.
It wasn’t always like this—a battle for food. I had used to eat at the table, too. But children change, things change, when you grow up. Suddenly different things are more important. The fact that the schoolhouse is also an orphanage might seem that I’m not the only one. But it’s not true. There are other orphans, of course—when are there not?—but they all came from families to be proud of, families whose reputations wouldn’t make the others push your face into the dirt. Like Sade—the little girl came from a respectable farmer who died in a barn fire. Sad, of course, but perfectly honourable. Or Jasek—the Cebet native with the dark face—his father was a soldier who died in battle, his mother in childbirth. They were both upstanding people in our village.
But no, not me. Of course, someone had to be different. There was always a pecking order, and someone has to be last. I can deal with bullies just fine, but I can’t handle their reasons for picking on me. It is because of my parents. Of who they were, of how I was born. I’m illegitimate. The half-blood of a barkeeper and his servant girl. And I can’t do anything to change that. I just hoped they loved each other, that it was worth it. Because of what they did, I’m not worth anything. So something should be.
I reach the Gatehouse, pulling the door shut with my foot as I collapse onto a chair. The stew is delicious, as always, and the bread is still warm. After my meal, I allow myself to sink deeper into my seat, pulling my knees to my chest. The familiar feeling of emptiness is back in my stomach, despite the fact that I just filled it. But it’s not the pangs of hunger, it’s a need for something different. I can’t figure out what. I want something, so bad I can almost taste it on my tongue, but it remains unknown. Is it change? A lineage to be proud of? The feeling that I belong? It is probably a mixture of all those things, but still something is missing. The feeling of being more—being full, being enough. I’m lacking that. I need that.
The bell on the outside gate clangs, drawing me back to the present. I drag my body off the chair, clutching my braid in one hand, and move towards the lever that will draw the gates open. Works continues; I think, my hand on the chain; will it ever end?
__
part two | dylan
Guilt is an infection. But for this, there is no cure. It spreads through your system, poisoning your bloodstream and affecting every part of your life. It wakes you up in the middle of the night, chest constricted and breathing tense, to haunt you with things you’ve done. It paralyzes you with memories of people you knew. It shows no mercy, no forgiveness. It is so deeply ingrained in my very being that I can hardly imagine living without it. It holds you back, drags you down, keeps you from living. It’s hardly likely that you will survive to the end without your body shutting down, your frame broken. You learn from your mistakes, but they torment you. Yet we continue forward, not knowing which other direction to turn.
Guilt is not a cure, but it is a chance.
I clutch their letter in my hand, skimming it over for the hundredth time. We have a new assignment for you, it reads. One that will take you away from your current post. Please do recall the oath you made to us, or have you forgotten? You promised to be there in our time of need. Do not disappoint us. This mission relies on you. Your goal or your honour—the choice is yours. Can we trust you, Dylan?
Can we trust you? The last line echoes in my mind. I have heard those words before. Where have I heard those words before?
My shoulders freeze. I’ve remembered. I quickly try to close the memory, to shut it down. But it pushes up. Plays itself over and over again in my mind. I can see it clearly, the mental imagine seems almost real.
Can we trust you, Dylan? Can we trust you?
Guilt hangs heavy, dragging me down. Shame tightens my collar. Regret shackles my wrists.
General Dunn always said that I had an eye for a bluff, that I could spot truth in a thief’s gaze or a lie in the mouth of a merchant. So why did it take me so long to spot his deceit? Why did I let myself be carried along? I curse myself and my foolishness, seeing where it has brought me. I raise my fists to my temples, pressing them together as if I could force out the memories of things I’ve done. But there’s no forgetting. Only condemnation and memories.
With a thud, I push myself to my feet and plant my boots in the dirt. My sword hangs heavy at my belt. I can remember it, its glorified point glossy and stained with the colour of rust as I stood over—
No. No, I wouldn’t go there. I cross my room, hardly noting the grand furnishings that I used to admire. No, their novelty had long worn off. They were just another part of my life now—another part of the act. But it had been in vain. The letter I held in my clenched hand had changed everything. I lean against the mantle of the crackling fireplace, my fist pressed to my forehead. Of course I wanted things to change, that’s the only reason I held my position. But I wanted to be the one to change them. Not be dragged down by an oath I had made long ago. My eyes glazed over, I had been staring into the churning flames too long.
Your goal or your honour? the letter had read. I sigh, feeling heavy. My goal or my honour—which would it be? I hesitate, the letter dangling tantalizingly from the tips of my fingers. The tongues of fire lick up hungrily. Your goal, they seem to crackle. You are so close now. Why give up on everything you’ve ever worked for? Goal, goal, goal.
The letter hung, unbalanced. It seemed to lean over the edge of my finger, falling down, down down—
At the last possible second, I snatch it up, blowing away the heat that flickered from a corner of the paper. I throw it onto my desk in disgust.
“Honour,” I respond out loud. “I choose honour.”
__
part three | taj
Fear is a prison. It lures you in, leaving no other option, and slams the bars down. It erases every thought of reason, banishes clear thinking. There is no escape route, no back up plan, no way to safety. It is in control; your revolts and refusals mean nothing. It forbids us from fighting back because we’re terrified of the pain. It prevents us from taking a chance, because we’re frightened of the unknown. It keeps us from living, because we’re scared of all the possibilities that could put us in danger. Yet we trudge forward, fear latching to our chests. It drags around our ankles, settles down on our consciences, winds itself around our throats. But we continue forward.
Fear is not a comfort, but it is a chance.
My boots crash like thunder with each step I take. With soldiers on either side of me—men I have seen growing up beside me, seen at their worst and their best, seen die—our troop makes their way to the courtyard. My breathing is heavy, each bone in my body wants to pull away and run in the opposite direction. The hallway is narrow, just fitting three abreast. It seems to taper as we go along, growing thinner and thinner, until it can only fit myself. I am walking through the hallway—now a tunnel—alone. Rock presses in on my right and my left, it brushes against my hair. My shoulders shake, hands tremble. No, I can’t be back here.
“Taj!”
I jump, almost expecting my head to dash against the ceiling. Instead, I find myself surrounded again, moving with something bigger than myself. I shake my head against the clouding inside.
“Taj?” The voice calling my name is closer.
I turn. Collide with the man behind me. They swarm around my body, but I fight backwards. I recognize that voice. It’s someone I haven’t heard for years. Suddenly I see him.
“Dylan!” My face breaks into a smile as he approaches.
He charges into me, the impact of his shoulder hitting mine sends a rattle through my spine. I chuckle in disbelief, clapping him on the shoulder.
“I knew it was you,” I shouted above the noise. “What in Tarzot’s name are you doing here?”
His face is wide open, the familiar features showering me with memories of days long ago. Days without war; without the nagging feeling that you were doing something wrong; days where each moment together was a friendly competition, just trying to win. And then he did. He won everything that mattered. And we had been torn apart.
“I was sent to Crey outpost,” he exclaims. “The boys there were talking about you—got into a scrape with General Dunn, I hear?”
I flush, ducking my head. “I was hoping to forget that.”
He laughs, throwing an arm around my shoulder as we continue with the crowd.
“Always seem to run into some sort of trouble, isn’t that just like you.”
You have no idea, I think, but Dylan continues.
“I heard about this post, and I just knew. I knew I would find you here. So I got myself transferred. Imagine that!”
He throws his head back with a grin. I shake my head; this free and easy character was so out of place in this hole of hellions.
“Just in time for tonight,” Dylan says.
My smile falters. My stomach drops.
Tonight. How could I have forgotten? The familiar crawl of fear creeps along my back, tingling in my neck. I have to find a way to get out of here, before it’s too late. Before I’ve become part of this place—savage. Before they find out.
~soleil
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