no past life has been lived to lend us glory
and that which existed before us is not ours
Kahraman was many things, but a fool was not one of them. Still, he had been naive in believing for even one moment that his father would let him leave peacefully with his blessing. The Teke had beheld his father’s wrath himself many times before, and had never thought that one day, the blazing heat of his sire’s anger would turn be turned upon him. It had been a great reckoning, and Kahraman had endured the figurative flood or wrath that his father had sent after him. For a cleansing, and a righting of wrongs. An aberration, that’s what Kahraman had become, just because he wanted to forge his own path in life, because he refused to bear a second-hand hatred, and had turned his bck on the war his father had started on Kahraman’s behalf. That his father would rather see his blood soaking into the desert sands of their homeland rather than being true to his heart hurt more than any of the wounds he sustained as he fled.
He had left the desert behind him, going further beyond the borders he’d ever been before, until even the hills that marked the edge of his father’s dominion hid beyond the horizon. Many moons passed, and Kahraman found himself unwelcome in many of the herds he came across. He had the bearing of a warrior, and pride kept his chin high despite the ache he felt in his shoulder, and the fact that any quick movements twinged the bad welt on his neck, from the teeth of one who had been as a brother to him. Onwards, he journeyed, no longer stopping to look back. There was little use dwelling on all he had lost. Exhausted, injured and weak, Kahraman might have given up, if not for the righteous anger that burned within him. His father was a Tyrant King, and Kahraman would not let this be the end of him. Perhaps he’d never return to his home, perhaps his father would assume him dead. But, even as he danced ever closer to death, Kahraman refused to die. He would live to spite the one Kahraman had idolised his whole life.
Kahraman lost track of how long it had been since his death sentence. He knew not where he was going, nor how far his father’s minions would come searching for him (if they had not yet given up) but as the sun rose, he found himself on a clifftop overlooking the ocean. Upon the distant horizon, he made out a dark shape. Islands. Kahraman had never seen such a large body of water in his life. His prowess as a warrior had been well-known throughout his homeland, but Kahraman and his kin were less-than-exceptional when it came to swimming. Still, he slowly descended to the sandy shore, and after resting for a time, limped into the salt water sea. If any of his executors had the courage and the skill to track him to this place, the Akhal-Teke Prince wagered none would brave the ocean waves on the off-chance he might have fled to somewhere so foreign to them.
He dragged himself ashore and immediately headed inland. The sound of the ocean was unnerving, and it drove Kahraman to recklessness. Too late, he realised as a stranger confronted him; he was trespassing here. After a brief tussle, Kahraman turned and fled. He was in no state – physical, mental or emotional, to persist in remaining in a potentially hostile territory. There was nothing he wanted here, and so, rather than risk further bodily harm, he tactfully retreated, and took to the sea once more. The Akhal-Teke floundered, caught in a strong current, and by the time he made landfall on the large island, he was utterly spent.
The Forsaken Son was many things, but a fool was not one of them. The sun was hanging low in the sky, and it would be dark soon. A strange land was always dangerous, but especially so at night. Kahraman eventually came across a small hillock, and sheltered on its leeward side. A thin stream snaked across the meadow not far from where he stood, and he had taken a few minutes to slake his thirst. But the Teke was on edge, close to complete exhaustion. With a grunt of discomfort, he shifted his weight from his injured foreleg, and suddenly swung his head around sharply (a twinge of pain from his neck wound elicited a second grunt) at a small sound that might signal another’s approach. He flicked an ear and tensed up a little – his left ear was dark with drying blood – courtesy of the snapping teeth of the one whose home he’d charged into only hours ago.
“Kim gözden uzak gölgelerde gizler?”1 The words of warning were uttered in a low, hoarse voice. Kahraman narrowed his eyes briefly when he realised he spoke in the tongue of his homeland. “Greetings, stranger. I seek no trouble, only rest.” This language felt strange in his mouth, but his mother had taught him well. It had been her desire that he learn about other lands, other ways of life. It was she who had planted the seed of rebellion in Kahraman’s heart, and she had paid for it dearly. Even in death, his beloved mother had defied her King. The memory of whispered conversations with his mother in this common tongue, late at night beneath brilliantly starry skies filled the pale stallion with emotions he’d denied himself for a long time. His throat tightened, and he felt the sorrow needling at his eyes, threatening tears.
Kahraman would no longer dwell on his father’s hatred, but on his mother’s love. And it would not be out of spite that he would cling to life, no matter what predators and foes he faced in the future. All he wanted to do was honour his mother’s memory, and he would hold on to this second chance, embrace whatever awaited him on these islands with his whole being.
Kahraman |