[see, i was born into a family of great lineage, putrid abolengo, gilded family books. but i was not quite born out of my mother. my father was (is?) a great soldier. the little maid from Azlan was a war prize. her copper red hair, her dark skin, eyes dark like pools of tar. my mother, that caged panther, that girl who bore me into the world and perhaps loved me from afar.
unlike most stories of similar origin, my father did love me, too. alonso, is too, his name. my older brother, regino, wore his mother's name instead. My brother, tall and pale and handsome, dark haired, like a pale ox, some sort of bull, his strong brow and his big hands. my brother picking me up to teach me to ride horses. father took us hunting. but a half-bred child, a soiled mongrel, cannot quite take up knighthood. no, as per my blood, half righteous and half a wild beast from recently conquered lands, half prince and half slave, either learning all about philosophy, politics, rules and rituals or told i was too brutish to understand it all, it was simply not allowed for me to take titles, lands, gold.
so i was to be a cleric.
a cleric. a gods damned fucking cleric, can you imagine? no, absolutely not. i had already sieged a castle with my father and brother, taken to block roads to enemy cities with my cousins, enjoyed the plundering and the reaping of war. and then i was supposed to wear black instead of red and silver and to educate myself on divine law? i laughed. i took up my horse, my savings and my weapons, and i set off to find others like me.
first it was five, all friends, then it was twenty, sixty, two hundred, more. it was good to invest in good weapons. it was good to invest in cannons. i love cannons more than i love any gods. i love artillery! i love knives. we were known for our brutality. push of pikes? no problem. the hopeless first body held the line and, from behind, armed with swords, navajas and shields, the cuchilleros would come out screaming and devastating lines with the closeness of our blades. our name was to be known. The sixth Merindal company, a bunch of bloodied young men from Merindal and its surroundings. No worship but war. No worship but gold.
during the winter we were city guards for Balchandar, and trained the local militia. during the summer, we reaped riches and corpses.
...
i haven't told anyone this. are you listening? listen well. when i was 8 years old, i whispered to a crow:
"make me a lord of war"
and he whispered back,
"my lord, do you wish to live forever?"
i promised to abandon the gods as long as it let me wage war.
i think it ate my heart.
...
see, i was born into a life of great carnage. great riches. whores, gold, silk. brocade, new guns, gunpowder. colorful tents. war, war, war, war, war. i think my mom whispered something when i was born. i was born with a bad moon in my eyes, you see. not quite entirely boy, not quite entirely girl, not quite entirely fair-skinned, not quite entirely a pureblooded warhound from Azlan, not quite anything, fully.
not quite alive, not quite dead. not quite good. entirely bad.
see, i was born to die, and i died to be born. something akin to a phoenix. just made out of blood.]
