[Flashback/Training] Unbreakable

[Siiri]

27th of Fall, 496 AV – Snapping Jaws Clan home – Twilight

They burned her aunt's body in a grand bier. She had lain there pristine, almost like she was just asleep if one ignored the mangled arm. The embalmers were paid well to make the deceased appear as she did when she still breathed. Her mother had spared no expense for the funeral and everyone pitched in, giving gifts both big and small, offerings for the departed. The woman had been well-liked, loved even, by the people for her friendly nature and her skill in arms and in her trade. They had mourned her aunt's passing, a life everyone felt was extinguished too soon.

She watched them as each spoke of some anecdote they had with the woman. Some sang, tearful dirges that moved the heart of many. Others gave speeches, the important ones or those who thought themselves important. She watched them all, with flat eyes set in a face carved from marble. The older ones thought her mind had broken from the traumatic experience. Not a flicker of emotion marred or lighted her expression. They didn't know. Inside she bled, her heart torn asunder, ripped apart as effectively as that of anyone sacrificed in the temple altars.

Inside she wept. Inside she screamed. Inside she raged. But not a ripple showed in the surface, her mask unbreakable.

That was ten days ago.

She was ten years old then. Now she's eleven, the first birthday in her life where her aunt wasn't around. She knew the woman would never be around again. And so she knelt in the middle of her room, surround by things that belonged to the woman. They were gifts, inheritance, meant only for her. No one contested that they would go to her. No one could. She was the woman's chosen, her heir. Successor.

Weapons of bone and wood sheathed in tooled leather scabbards sat all around her, waiting to be wielded again. They were gifted to her, by the people who thought they had the right to say the weapons should be gifted to her. So unlike the twin daggers that remained strapped at her hips, gifted to her by the woman herself three years past. So unlike the metal greatsword that sat on the low table before her, held aloft by a sword holder made from ivory. None had gifted that to her save her aunt, moments before she died. In her hands, the weapon slew the creature that orchestrated the tragedy of ten days ago, parting its head from the rest of its body.

But she hadn't been fast enough when she used it.

Because she had known fear then.

And now she constantly questioned herself. Because her aunt could still be alive now had she been fast enough.

[Siiri]

Inside the mind of the young girl, a heated debate was being waged. It was her voice, the small, soft voice of a child, against the booming voice of all her accumulated guilt, spoken by a demon that threatened to crush her very spirit. Occasionally, a third voice would speak, calm and soothing.

What kind of Myrian do you think you are, when the mere sight of a Dhani locks your joints and freezes you like a hare moments before the wolf devours it? Useless! You are filth; you are nothing! Skurak!

Do not blame yourself so. You are but a child, helpless in the face of the dangerous games the grown ups play all around you. You are not ready to take part in such just yet. Wait until you grow your fangs.

But I am Myrian! I am born in this world with fangs, they are my birthright!

You speak as if you are some great warrior! Do not delude yourself, foolish girl. Were you one, you would have wielded the sword without hesitation!

I did my best!

Calm yourself, child. You are blameless in this tragedy. Blame instead the children of Siku, for it is they that have –

Blameless? Ha! You were right there! You could have prevented the death of your aunt! If you are all you said you are, Shara would be standing right before you now instead of being a pile of ash!

Shut up!

You really are a child! Useless, trash, garbage! You’ll never amount to anything, only as a second-rate, try-hard guard watching over some nobody’s latrine! Where is the strength you oh so often boast about in your practice with the dead one? Where is the warrior? Where is the Myrian?!

Shutupshutupshut -

“ - UP! I HATE YOU!”

Siiri burst into action from her position on the floor, grabbing the hilt of the greatsword, Serpent Slayer, that sat before her. She had never held the weapon without the supervision of her aunt until now. The woman was gone. No more will she be able to teach and guide her. She was on her own.

Red-hot rage surged through her, giving her the strength to lift the greatsword up one-handed and bringing it crashing down on the wicker table where the weapon had rested moments ago. Unthinking, unseeing, Siiri smashed the weapon at anything and everything, fighting demons that only she could see. Weapons made of wood and bone shattered beneath the rampaging onslaught of the greatsword, its wielder screaming incoherently with each swing, the next becoming more powerful than the last. Not contented with the destruction she has wrought on the former belongings of her aunt, she smashed and cleaved at her furniture, sundering her bed in twain, stabbing and ripping through the animal skin hide that served as walls separating her room from the rest of the house.

Anger and hate drove her, fueling the hands that held the weapon’s hilt in a white-knuckled grip. She was furious and frustrated, at the loss of her aunt, at the Dhani that had ambushed them so many days ago, at the world. But mostly she was furious at herself. Why couldn’t she save her?!

An overhead chop of the greatsword on the writing table at the corner was her own reply to her question.

“Siiri.”

Why, when everything she had learned, everything she had been taught, were geared to equip her to react to such a situation? She was taught to fight – to kill! – efficiently and without mercy.

Repeated strikes from pommel of the greatsword smashed the small cabinet where she kept her clothes to bits.

“Siiri!”

Why had she frozen in that small raft, when she saw that the monstrous Dhani had her aunt in its scaly clutches, crushing and choking her? Why had she felt fear?

Slayer smashed against bones that served as a frame for her window, shattering them to dust.

“SIIRI!”

The girl whirled at the voice, thinking that the demon of her guilt had come to haunt her once again. A figure towered by her door, parting the strings of beads that gave her privacy from the rest of the household. Its features were covered in shadows. Siiri spun the blade above her head and swung it downwards, intending to split the skull of the invader. But the figure stepped into the light, revealing it to be her mother, Ehra. The edge of the blade stopped just a mere inch above the woman’s head. Whether unconsciously or not, Slayer's wielder was exerting near-perfect control over the weapon despite the mania in her actions. She never noticed how well she handled the blade however, for her mother’s stern gaze bored down upon her. Siiri met it unflinchingly.

For several seconds they held each other’s stare, neither one blinking. Ehra broke the spell first, moving towards her daughter. But Siiri drew back, keeping the blade between them.

“D-don’t come n-near,” the girl rasped. Her voice was hoarse from screaming, quivering from panic.

Ehra hesitated before she stopped and held up her hands in acquiescence. Siiri took that time to rip open a hole in the rawhide wall with the greatsword. She scrambled outside and ran off into the night, leaving her mother alone and sighing in her ruined room.

--------------------o--------------------

In the room adjoining Siiri’s, another girl sat on the floor quietly but no such madness touched her mind. Tala had been listening since Siiri’s initial outburst to her confrontation with their mother and eventual escape into the streets of Taloba. Tears fell freely from her eyes as she thought, falsely, that the first words Siiri had screamed were directed at her. It was she after all who had led their little party into the Basin that fateful day.

She felt responsible for the death of their aunt, Shara.

She felt responsible for the death of their brother, Habin.

She felt responsible for the death of their riamms.

She felt responsible for madness and fury that touched her sister’s heart.

Tala collapsed to the floor, finally succumbing to the pain that nested in her breast. She cried, her frail body wracked by sobs of guilt sobs. But her weeping was drowned by the sound of water droplets falling on the hard ground outside as it began to rain.

[Siiri]

The heavens poured as if Makutsi herself wept for what had transpired. Dark clouds blotted the night sky, blocking the faint light provided by Leth's eye or the jeweled motes that were the stars. Siiri, too distraught, ran in the downpour with no clear destination in mind, only allowing her feet to carry her far away from her clan home. Her movements automatic, the girl was not even aware that each step she took muddied the meager shift she wore.

No one stopped her flight. Everyone was in their homes having their meals or preparing to turn in for the night. None of the perimeter guards saw her, their eyes too focused beyond the walls of Taloba for any who might take advantage of the cover of the rain to slip into the city. She ran, clutching the oversized greatsword Slayer in her arms like a too-young mother nestling her newborn in her bosom. She ran, heedless of where she was going. She ran, trying to escape the demons that hounded her.

--------------------o--------------------

Baba grumbled through his aching joints as he went about the motions of shutting the bamboo shutters of his windows to keep the rain from splashing in and ruining the innumerable carvings of wood, bone, and whatever else material he used that littered the floor of his unkempt home. The downpour had been incessant, some deluge Makutsi might have had left over from the torrents she had unleashed in the summer. It was practically darker than night outside because of it.

A glint of metal from without caught the eye of the gnarled Myrian as he tugged at the last level to close off all the shutters. Was there someone outside? But who would visit him, he who lived in the forgotten part of the city, where the surrounding structures still lay crumbled about from the ravages of the cataclysm that was the Valterrian? Those who knew who he had been had all passed on in the embrace of Myri. Those who knew him for his skills and trade were all dead as well, save for -

“Siiri.”

He ambled towards the doorway and drew the half-rotted barrier open as he raised the lantern he held to peer at the ruins that surrounded his abode. There, in the middle of what used to be his courtyard, stood the girl whose name he just called, a greatsword hugged close to her chest and visibly shivering from the rain and the cold night air.

“Get ye in then, lass,” he spoke, his voice lacking the usual course tone he often used when he still instructed her.

The girl complied, walking stiffly in a jerky gait as if she was fighting against the movement of her body. As soon as she entered the threshold of the house, she leaned at the nearest wall and sank down in a defeated heap. Her long hair, unbraided, was a copper-red mess that covered her face. A faint, lifeless voice emerged from her numb lips.

“Da'Shara's gone Baba. Did you know that?”

Crass and uncouth, the old Myrain was never known to be sentimental or prone to emotional reactions, but his weathered heart almost broke at the sound of his last student's voice. He nodded, though she could not see, and replied to her softly.

“Aye, child. I heard. I heard.”

The girl did not say anything else however, just stayed at her position on the floor, head down, greatsword leaning on burdened shoulders. The blade had bit lightly on her flash but she never seemed to notice. Blood trickled down the shallow wounds now, their stain untouched no more by the rain.

Baba pursed his lips. He had never seen the girl at such a state before. She had been strong when she learned the arts from him. Spirited. Now all he saw was a broken thing. Most un-Myrian-like. But he did not want to feel pity on the girl, no. That would be a disservice to her – she was still grieving. When the time for mourning is done, and she remained at such a state, perhaps he would put her out of her misery. Even if he had not taken a life for the longest of time. Myri should be able to mend the brokenness of the girl's soul.

“Never got 'round to makin' yer room to a stockroom,” he started. “I'll ready yer bed. Ye can stay fer the night.”

His gravelly voice ground in his ears, discordant without the girl's usual return quip. It felt strange speaking to her without her talking back. He never imagined the girl losing any of her witty retorts ready to put him in his place no matter how mundane the words were that came out of his mouth. He shrugged when he realized there would be no reply forthcoming from her. He merely turned around to clear the spare room he had at the back.

“Baba.”

He hadn't taken more than two steps when the girl called him back. She did not speak again until he at least said, “Aye, lass?”

“I would sleep here, if that's alright with you.” She lapsed into silence once more.

She did not speak again for the rest of the night.

[Siiri]

Siiri woke up with a course blanket covering her. She was still where she fell asleep the previous night, though the door was closed now. Morning light spilled from the gap at its bottom, as well as from the numerous holes that dotted the rotted wood. She had never overslept this late before. Usually, she was up and about several bells before Syna peeked from the eastern wall. She stood up, somewhat unsteadily. The first thing she noticed was the empty feeling of the rickety shack. Baba was not inside.

Then the hunger hit her.

The girl almost doubled over as her stomach grumbled loudly, painfully, reminding her that she hadn't eaten since the midday meal yesterday. She turned to the lone table in the room, where she remembered Baba took his meals – where Baba did everything really – and, after sorting through the junk that littered it, found a cup of goat's milk, several eggs (uncooked) and what looked like some sort of fowl roasted on a stuck (half-eaten). Siiri quickly stuffed her face with the roast, washed it down with a huge gulp of the milk, before working on the eggs. She didn't bother cooking them (she knew the cooking implements were probably unwashed outside, anyway), just cracked the shells open at the top and downed the goop inside. She ditched the shells out the back window, where Baba had several peppers planted in broken pots (Baba loved pepper), to serve as fertilizer. She went back to the table to finish the roast and the milk.

Her hunger satisfied, Siiri slipped outside. She immediately spotted Baba sitting on a large rock, absentmindedly chipping away at a piece of wood with his knife. The 'Thinking Rock', Siiri used to call it when she was younger. She always thought the short Myrian went there to think “deep, important thoughts”, as she used to call them. Later on, she realized that Baba sat there whenever he wanted to clear his mind, like the time he got so upset when she had used his carving tools as throwing knives and used his carvings for target practice. Baba sat there now, his hands moving without thought as he shaped the wood he held, his gaze distant. Siiri walked up to him and cleared her throat.

“I...I need something to do,” she muttered. She did not meet the man's gaze, hoping to avoid a questions about last night or a possible lecture.

But Baba did not say anything. He merely pointed at a tree stump with a rusty hatchet set atop it and said, “Chop me wood for the food ye surely feasted on inside. Then ye can feed the animals and water the plants. Then go an' catch one of them chicken's loiterin' about, kill it, an' cook me lunch. I'll be inside when yer done.” He stood up, no taller than Siiri's eleven year-old frame at full height, and made his way back to his shack. He banged the door close once he got inside.

Siiri, still unmoving where she stood, blinked.

“GET A MOVE ON, GIRLIE!” Baba's voiced echoed from the house.

Siiri scrambled to do as ordered. At least he didn't ask any questions.

[Siiri]

Siiri chopped the wood with more energy than was needed to split it, smashing the hatchet down with enough force to split open a man's skull. Perhaps she was trying to drain herself of all pain and anger - all energy and emotion - so that she would not feel anything at all. Whatever her reason, her efforts parted the wood in two and drove the hatchet's head into the stump of the tree beneath so deeply that she wasted several minutes trying to pull it out. That did not stop her from doing it again however, though this time she piled several of the wood on top of each other before she smashed down the hatchet. All the wood still split apart but Siiri had an easier time now pulling the axe head out of the tree stump.

It wasn't long before the girl had worked up a sweat, and only half a bell into the task and she was already breathing heavily. On any other day she would have been able to go at it for a couple of hours before feeling any sort of fatigue, but the amount of energy she expended wore her down faster than usual. But the girl didn't mind; focusing her mind on doing something, working with her hands, cleared her thoughts and freed her from thinking of her loss, of the whole tragedy. Take the wood, put on the stump, chop, put smaller pieces on another pile - it was all automatic for her, only requiring muscle memory.

At last, when she had acquired a sizable pile of chopped wood, Siiri ceased her work. Arms quivering, she slammed the woodchopper's axe on the middle of the tree stump one last time before turning around, only to plop down on the chipped surface, looking defeated. She absentmindedly fingered a particularly deep depression on the stump, one she had created earlier. Her thoughts were turned inward.

There is strength in my hands. But why couldn't I save her?

Yards away, inside his dilapidated house, Baba watched her, wondering how he was to pull the girl out of the rut she seemed to be digging herself into.