Counsel

“Do you not wish to be my son?"

The voice was deep. Resonate. The words cutting as the sharpest blade. Kanthu trembled, his grip on the sword failing as he recalled a moment long past. ‘Twas not so different than this.

He stood, trembling in fear before an assembly of soldiers marked by his family’s crest. Then, just as now, his left hand held a sword; then, just as now, he leveled it at the neck of a deserter. But one crucial difference between then and now made, well, all the difference: a hand fell upon his shoulder, then. Firm. Yet not without a measure of gentleness. 

“Do it,” said the voice. “‘Tis as it must be.”

But Kanthu didn’t. Overcome with trembling, he dropped the sword. ‘Twas then the hand lost that measure of gentleness.

“Foolish!”

That same instant, the hand retrieved the sword to slash the deserter’s throat. 

“Leave us!”

The air filled with sounds of marching unto the distance. The slain’s blood soaked the ground as Kanthu watched. Only when no more boots beat the packed soil did the voice return, speaking the words Kanthu would never forget.

“Do you not wish to be my son?!”

Just like that, Kanthu was a Lord. Standing before a troop of soldiers wholly his own. No firm, gentle hand rested on his shoulder. Still, he tightened his grip on his sword. Then thrust it through the deserter’s throat.

‘Twas as it must be.