that the Order is not the ideal I believed it was. It’s not the organization I joined, the one I believed in and followed. Followed blindly.
I was there when this Eye ascended after the death of the previous Eye. No one questioned it then, but now I think we should have. We were blind. Trusting in our brethren, in the system long before laid down. In the ideals that we, the Order, stood for and against.
We were fools. Blind, stupid fools. Now we’ve paid the price. This is a pointless exercise now. Tajss is dead. Most life was wiped out by the Devastation. I no longer believe in the visions of the Eye or the teachings of the Order that a great reawakening will come. It was a lie. A lie we all believed, but nonetheless a lie.
How many people have to buy into a lie to make it true?
I know the answer to my own question. No matter how many people believe, the truth simply is. It doesn’t matter how incredible or unreal it might seem, the truth is the truth. Everything else is as nothing.
I wash my face with cold water from the pitcher we keep in the bathroom then go to the kitchen. I look through the cabinets and jars to get a feel of what we have on hand for me to prepare. I find eggs and some smoked meats that will make a good meal. If we had some talik it would accent the meal, rounding it out for them.
The jar I keep talik in is hidden behind several others. I dig my way back to it and open the lid to find an empty jar. I must have used the last of it last week. I look at the eggs and meat, frowning. It’s a meal, yes, but not a tasty meal. It isn’t worthy of my brethren. I want them to feel well cared for, to know that I value and appreciate them.
Talik isn’t hard to gather and there is usually some growing not far from our home here. I look at the door out of the dining area. Lochabers hang on the wall next to it, ready for use. My stomach churns, but I can do this. It will be fine.
Steeling my nerves, I walk to the wall and reach out my hand. It’s not like I lost an arm. I have both of those, and that is what a Zmaj male uses to wield a lochaber. I tell myself this over and over, but beneath my own thoughts is the truth.
Wielding a lochaber takes more than two arms. It’s balance and motion, a delicate dance between you and the weapon. The enemy doesn’t even factor into it. The beauty of this weapon is the motions between it and the wielder. I’d trained with one since I was big enough to hold one up.
As my hand closes on the smooth shaft, memories flood my thoughts. The first time I held one, my first spar, my first kill. The first time I realized I couldn’t wield one effectively any longer. When I dropped my weapon mid-motion.
The wood is cool, long, and smooth. I pull it off the wall, gripping tight as I draw it to me. The shaft is two arms lengths perfectly weighted to offset the blade. The blade is slightly curved, mounted into the wood itself then bound tightly with strips of leather. The outer edge of the blade glints in the soft light, sharp enough to cut a hair.
This weapon is well cared for, as it should be. A lochaber is a male’s life. It is his mate. His protection and his status. It is the thing he will use to provide for his family and to defend his honor. A lochaber is not to be taken lightly.
I wish I could wield it as I used to. It feels like I can. The knowledge is there, the memory of wielding it with highly drilled skill, but I know that when it counts, I’ll misstep. It’s happened every time. I squeeze my eyes shut and move to put it back on the wall, and then I stop myself.
No.
Going outside is dangerous. I can’t go out without a weapon. I force my eyes open and stare at the lochaber. It taunts me. Daring me to wield it, to hear it sing through the air as it and I dance. The call is strong, but I put it back into its place.
I return