As I let myself settle into the idea of recording what I know of the Rahkas Wars, I quell all fear: Now is a most obvious time to partake in a deep and blissful meditation.
The sky is bruised and swollen; thick clouds heavily-laden with sweet rainwater, ready to wash this Valley clean. I await the rapturous battlecry of an impending storm and an ever-present scent of burnt ozone pervades, a scent that is not entirely unpleasant. I am reminded of the light spring rain in the Meadowcrest before the vicious monsoons invade...yes, I recall the Luminae breeze as natural purity in the most sincere sense.
Cleansed, free, and unafraid. Thusly I begin.
***
I suppose the real beginning of the Rahkas Wars, for me, was not the advent of the First Invasion. It was a solitary incident, seared forever into my mind. I remember all aspects of it: what it felt like to take a life for the first time. It was my first truly vicious act. Granted, some say it was for self-defense, and I concur to a point. However, the sense of power I gleaned from that first experience shaped me in more ways than one, and by the time I had finished killing him, it had gone far beyond self-defense. This incident occured several years ago, sometime between the time when Domenic had been incarcerated and when I served as Battalion Commander. My guess is, it was between the First and Second Invasions.
When I had to step away to relieve stress, I used to wrap my young ones snugly into the Mushroom House for safe-keeping. There were times that Piers would look after them, but he had his own agenda, and there were few others I trusted. I believe now that Sulekhi could have, had I allowed her; at that time, I still did not regard her, being that she was female, as useful in any manner whatsoever.
One evening, with my young ones taken care of, I ventured into the inky night to run off my day's frustrations. I do not recall what those frustrations had been on that particular day; more than likely, it was a plethora of small incidents and crises. It did not take much then, as I was more easily irked years ago than I am now. I had decided to get away, and I often did so by running at top speed through the forest until I collapsed. I ran alone at night chiefly because there is a calming quality in being raw and elemental, enveloped in nature, clad in the cool night air.
Not even fifty yards into the exercise, I was attacked from behind. I was taken roughly by the back of the neck and slammed forcefully into a tree, and I saw a glimmer of moonlight reflect off of the knife he carried on his person. I knew this assailant was not to be trifled with. I was wearing only a pair of casual denims, so I felt vulnerable, and angry at the interruption. The assailant shoved me onto the ground and demanded information from me: how many were Inside, who was in charge, what did the Deadbox hold...a good many sensitive questions.
I lay there on my stomach, underbrush biting my chest, a defeated man. I felt the assailant's knee between my shoulder blades, I felt the slick chill of his blade pressing into the flesh of my throat. Moments like these haunt the mind, in that every moment can be recalled sponteneously in perfect clarity. The assailant shifted his weight off of me, but did not remove the knife from its target. He told me not to resist, and that I was going to be taken into a compound for interrogation. I remember feeling thunder boil in my chest: the rapid influx of adrenalin washing over me in waves with such force, that I shiver involuntarily with the mere thought. In a blur of sudden opportunity, I pressed myself up into the assailant and flipped onto my back. The knife sliced the back of my neck at the shoulder as I did so, but I did not notice at the time. I planted a solid kick to the assailant's throat, and he lost all will to fight instantly as he collapsed onto me. There was a series of wet, gutteral sounds he made as he tried to breathe around his crushed trachea. We both knew he was already a dead man. I could read both fear and defiance in his moon-lit eyes. I smiled at him, and a low growl came from deep within me. It shocked me, but I could not help my uncharacteristic glee in this man's suffering. I felt in the dark for his knife and, after having found it, I pressed the tip to the hollow between his throat and chest, where the collarbones meet. Through clenched teeth I asked if he liked how the tables had turned. His eyes bore into me, and I kept that stare as I slowly buried the blade into him. The weapon did not slide in as easily as I had thought it would; I had to put my strength into it. I felt his body tense beneath me, and I gloried in that. I wrestled the blade free...again, a task more demanding than first assumed. If I am quiet, I can still hear the thick sound it made as it slipped from his body. I regarded the knife a moment in wonder, and I slid it across his throat softly, watching him die, feeling his life ebb and seep from him. I felt powerful in taking his life from him, justified.
(How I wish I had not had to do that, even now. To take a life kills a part of one's soul, and the realization of that hideous act can ultimately crush any sense of self.)
And then, just as suddenly, I was horrified. My stomach turned, and I vomitted. Holding back an urge to cry out, I immediately backed away, my breath hot and gasping; I couldn't believe what I had done. My first impulse was to kill myself, or to run and keep running until I came to a place where no one would find me. I was so afraid, and ashamed, I momentarily lost consciousness. When I came to, I found myself curled into a fetal position. I knew I had to hide my deed, and quickly. Recalling at that moment a small cave to the east of the forest, I brightened with hope: this one was so small and well-hidden by underbrush that it would be unlikely that anyone would find him anytime soon. I dragged him through the underbrush in the less travelled area of the forest, slid his cool body into that impossibly tight crawlspace, and removed my denims and placed those in there also. Nude and shivering, I sprinted to the river and washed myself vigorously, to remove any blood and all signs of a struggle. Only Piers suspected somthing when I returned several hours later, soaked to the bone and trembling uncontrollably. He never said a thing, never asked me what happened, but I could see it in his eyes. He knew I had done something; perhaps he was afraid to ask. That night as I lay in bed, I fought back the tears, yet they still flooded my eyes, almost defiantly. I was ashamed, and so very afraid. I learned quickly that hiding my emotions served me better.
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