When you fellows at the high court approached me to write a memoir about my accomplishments, I was apprehensive. Not because I am afraid of offending you all, but because I know it will only reach you. It will never reach the people who need my story most of all.
Considering that fact, I realize now that if it will only reach you, I suppose I shall write accordingly. I shall start with the memory I think about most often.
===
It was a fetid summer, hotter than any before it. A quiet breeze lingered through the air as my trembling hands reached down to grip my mother’s boney wrist. A weak smile settled on her face, seemingly unaffected by the strong scent of sickness surrounding us. I leant in close to hear her voice, a sound I promise to etch into my memory.
“Don’t forget me.”
Weeping, I whispered my response.
“I won’t.”
An exhale escaped her as her body sank in on itself. After fourteen hours of raving, vomiting and convulsing, my mother was dead.
In our mythos people die beautifully, they float out of consciousness like dust particles in the air. Maybe this reflects reality. Maybe some are given such releases. It just so happened that my mother was not one of them. To the upper court, this is a cruelty, to never truly be guided into that eternal rest. But to me? To my mother? It is a blessing. It shows the tenacity of the Stens. We refuse to bow to anyone, not even death is enough of an opponent to stop our fight.
Unfortunately, my father never shared the same sentiment.
Despite being a hawk, my father was not a strong man. He had an incessant need to weep. To whine and moan about any minor complication. Something that would vanish once he held his fishing rod in his hands. I tried to avoid my father whenever I could, except when he was fishing. It was only in those brief instances where I could see the man my mother married. Where I could see that this was indeed the man she trusted to care for me. Once he caught the fish and put down the rod he turned back into that frail, wisp of a man I despised. There was still a slight tenderness in my heart, for he was not a bad father. He was just different from my mother in ways I disliked. Perhaps I was simply craving remnants of her after she passed. Perhaps I truly was trying to honor her last words and remember her. I cannot say, all I can comment on and remember in detail was how I felt.
The years slipped through my fingers like sand spilling out of a broken hourglass. I grew from eight to ten to fourteen. I began to appreciate my father’s weaknesses; his whining was annoying, but I realized how warranted it was with the life we lived. I believe he took note of my self-imposed isolation. For each wrinkle that made a home on my father’s face, stoicism crept up as well. Emotion he would show, but weakness he would hide. Is there a difference? Perhaps not, but I still appreciated his futile attempts to comfort me.
For whom could be comforted with such a life? Our meals were few and far between; ‘meals’ is simply too grandiose a word for what we scrounged up from the streets. Although my father was a proficient fisher, we earned only some money from his catch. The river would dry up in the summer and freeze in the winter. I knew of some who had the tools to cut the ice in order to reach the water underneath, but we were far too poor. Spring in the Woodlands was a long branch of time; meaning we always managed to remain just above starvation. A small victory in a lifetime of losing battles. Then the drought began. And our lives began anew.
The drought that began in the spring was devastating. I doubt any of you people in the upper court even knew what was happening, but I was unable to enjoy such a luxury. My father and I lost our only source of income. And then came a decision born out of desperation rather than intellect; joining The Armed Fleet under His Majesty the King. If one signed up to the Fleet they were supplied with warm bedding, food, and lodgings unlike anything peasants like us had ever seen. But no deal on this Nest is exempt from corruption; to work for the Fleet is to condemn yourself to a lifetime of harsh service. The work involved long hours, horrible mistreatment from richer superiors, and worst of all, the promise of grave injury.
I wish I could have said that I immediately refused my father from joining. I wish I could have been the perfect pious child so often detailed in the mythos we read. But I was not like our saintly Goddess of Mercy; I myself prompted my father and convinced him. When I agreed to it initially, my father seemed hurt. How could his own child agree so eagerly to his certain death? It only took a moment for me to realize how incorrect I was in my method, if I was to truly convince him I needed to cut to his core. So, I spit out my venom, an accumulation of the previous frustrations about his incompetence:
“If you refuse to do this, you kill your lover’s child.”
My father stepped back; his pupils had shrunk at the sheer ferocity of my voice. He waited a few moments in silence, hoping that I would appear remorseful or guilty; that I would look surprised and immediately apologize. But no such look appeared on my face, in fact at his silence and shock, I only grew in anger. And strangely felt the urge to smile. I did show surprise when he started to laugh; a soft sound I had not heard in some years.
“You truly are her child.” He chuckled and pulled me close. “It is tiring to live like this isn’t it?”
At first, I struggled, but in his strong arms, I began to weep. It was difficult. To feel the pains of an empty belly. To see the world as a constant struggle to survive. As if I was a filthy cross-bred mangy dog which wandered the streets looking in the back-alley sewer systems for food. Starvation affects one’s mind and warps their sense of self. Their sense of control is lost as their brain constantly pleads and urges them to do something, anything to get rid of the aching in their stomach. But they cannot. Because facilitating a basic need is out of their control. And that revelation can create a devastating impact on a person, much less a child.
After this, the rest came quickly. My father signed up for the Armed Fleet; and we received the boons of his work, namely a new, quaint lodging. I remember how uncomfortable my first night was; the floor felt too smooth when compared to the jagged paths I’d walked before. I was unable to sleep for a portion of the time. To be a beggar in Breiðr streets meant becoming a nocturnal animal. The King’s order would arrest and forcefully enlist any drought affected beggars on the street in the daytime leading to a forceful shift in my internal clock. Additionally, my father and I slept in separate spaces. For the first time I rested without my father’s arms enclosing me in his chest. Halfway through the night, I got up and lingered outside my father’s room. Once I reflected on my reasoning; a fourteen-year-old acting like a molting hatchling lurking outside their parents’ bedroom; I quietly slipped back into my room accepting a sleepless night. I settled back in, until I heard soft footfalls behind me. I did not react since my father, for I could tell it was him from the weight of his steps, calmly circled his arms around me. I hugged him back, as a soft sigh escaped from me in relief.
It is in these later, adolescent years of my life when I began to see just how strong my father was. I’m not really sure what changed; maybe it was the harsh work as a member of the fleet; maybe it was the secure lifestyle after seasons of suffering — maybe it was both. But his stoicism only increased, it felt like he finally understood what it meant to be a father to a child. Not to say he was perfect, far from it, but he never seemed to whine anymore. It was like he was always holding his rod, and perhaps he was. When he wielded a sword to fight on the front lines, he may have imagined he was fishing again. I hope he did, for the battlefield is a place where kind folks only survive by creating illusions of somewhere better.
While he was out on his escapades, I found myself listless. There was always something to do when we lived on the streets; something to steal or fight. Although safe, this new cushy life left me directionless. In response, I took to the roads of my new suburbia. The markets seemed almost friendly now that I was not scuttling through them looking for something to steal. But the feeling of being lesser than never escaped me. Some who had experienced a similar transformation; going from poor to well-off; expressed the desire to forget their impoverished lifestyle. But I was not one of them. No, just like my mother I had resolved it within myself that I was not to let it perish silently. I was a Sten. I fed that feeling, every instance of my new class harassing my former class was a reminder of my past; the existence of injustice was too horrendous to ignore. Why should unfortunate people hide away to please the fortunate? Why are you nobles so offended when the consequence of your lavish lifestyle is presented to you? Every time a person was dragooned by the King’s order to join the Fleet; every time a child was exploited or killed trying to acquire food for their families; every time people suffered in front of others who opted to look away; it all came upon one singular conclusion. One singular answer. That humanity demanded judgment.
And that was the first instance in which I felt a strange power. A peculiar restlessness that would not escape me. Sometimes it was a sensation; like goose pimples; sometimes it was a dream. A dream of a large, forest sized entity towering over me; its wings stretching an exaggerated shadow over my small form. And sometimes it was a voice. One such time was when I saw a boy being harassed in the market square; on his emaciated shoulders there was another child draped over him, this one was cloaked but clearly unconscious. The boys' ears were not feathered, and their hair was covered with a cloak, making it impossible to identify what species they were. On the other hand, the fruit seller harassing him was a robin, clearly evident with his ears that feathered in reds and browns. The poor boy carrying him was struggling to hold him up, and the fruit seller swung his arm back to discipline them. And in that moment of silent observation; I heard a whisper.
“…Act.”
I paused.
“Act now.”
It repeated as I tried to discern what it sounded like. But it was indescribable, undefinable. It was like the cacophonous drabble of a crowded street and the silence when focusing on a task all at once. All I knew was that my feet moved before my head, for before I had begun to process the voice, I realized I was already standing in between the shopkeeper and the two boys.
“Get out of my way, hatchling.”
I responded simply, my voice steady. “No.”
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