The End; chapter one, cont.

              -The mats that lay before their house’s stone pathway looked precariously set, and Ahra was unsure about stepping onto them, in fear that they would sink into the water and mud. Gazing around herself; the other locals seemed to be fine on the makeshift walkways. They did not waver in their steps, no matter size or pace. Gathering up her readiness, Ahra strode onto the first mat, and within a few minutes she was no longer wary of them. They were large enough for three people to walk with linked arms, so there was no worry about falling in the streets, and instead of simply sitting in place, Ahra saw that there were metal stakes on the side of the road, to which the mats were fastened to like docks, floating on the waters effortlessly. A few villagers stole glances at Ahra wandering down the street, but did not say anything. Ahra strolled along, curiously looking at all the new culture that this territory’s village had. People passed her, carrying on with their day. Women carried baskets on their heads, balancing overgrown carrots or other produce efficiently. In the canal-like streets, horses and their owners waded comfortably through the murky floods alongside the hovering boats that pushed on. Steams smelling of spices and rice wafted down the roads in clouds, harboring the cozy aura of the village and calling people to eat; Ahra stopped at the edge of the dock mats, taking in all of the images before her and soaking up the culture. Toothy, fervent locals quibbled over prices of goods from their boats, floating side by side; the children who usually ran up and down the streets splashed water at each other over the edges of the mats; and people gathered around stone barrels set into the wet grasses, huddling close and sucking up the warmth of the fires in the holes of the barrels, chatting to one another. The shops and bazaars that walled the streets went on with business as usual, with no attention to anything but their daily lives.

         A gust of chilled wind blew over Ahra, sending a shiver up her back and her hair into the gales. Smoothing her hair back down and clutching herself to be warmer, she huffed into the air, frowning at her breath, which hung in the air like a cloud around her face. If she were to live here, she would need warmer robes; even the children were not fazed by the icy rainwater. Continuing down the dock mats, Ahra swerved around basket-carrying women, dodging in and out of others like everyone else. She came to a halt once more at a less busy area further down the street, standing at the edge once more to observe the charismatic market streets, rosy lips pursed in thought.

             A group of giggling children ran past her, pushing their way around Ahra’s legs. She stepped back to catch her balance, fuming at the carelessness of the screeching little ones. They bolted, ignorant of their doings, turning on their heels as one of them splashed up some water to run back in glee. Ahra moved to the other side of the mats, but she would definitely be caught in their reckless path. Suddenly, someone from behind Ahra came forward, putting their arms out like a fence for the wild children. The little ones giggled, stopping in their steps at the outstretched arms, familiar with the face that challenged them.

         “Be careful; you could have hurt…” the young man looked back at Ahra to generate a name, but he did not know hers; “this person.” His face was kind and welcoming, with a sharp nose that was accompanied by bright green eyes. Black hair fell scrappily before his face and around his thin neck, long but too cropped to force into a tail. His skin was fresh and marked with slight stubble that determined him at least seventeen; he wore coarse, grey robes that were wet and muddy at the hems. Speechless, Ahra was stunned by the stare he gave her. The children squealed as one of them kicked up some water, and they took off once more, back down the road. The young man rose to stand, bowing slightly at Ahra, which was done upon first meeting someone in the Usa Clan. Upon looking closer at his face, there was a visible scar that curled from the left of his upper lip to his nostril. Ahra turned away arrogantly, in no mood to meet locals. “What is your name?” He finally inquired, picking up a conical straw hat and a folded bundle of gray cloth that sat at his feet; he slipped the straw hat over his head, letting it hang around his neck by its tie.

         “Why should I tell you my name?” Ahra objected, walking away.

         “Hayaku Tohmoya.” He hushed, hurrying behind her and pulling his hat over his head. He was a bit taller than Ahra once he straightened his back; he followed her down the mats, persistent on knowing her name. “Are you from the west?” Hayaku gasped, trying to keep up with her quickened pace without bumping into others, which she did uncaringly. The West was a common name for the sister continent to the west of the one the Usa territory resided within; it was hotter there, and Ahra hated this place.

         “That’s right.” Ahra hissed, spinning around to face him. Pondering, she crossed her arms in a huff.  Catching up to her; Hayaku’s shoulders slumped tiredly as he stood, awaiting the words that would come from her open lips. “How did you know that?” She glared. He smiled, verdant irises flashing earnestly.

         “Your shoes.” He motioned. Looking down at her woven sandals, Ahra began to step away.

         “What about them?” Ahra demanded.

         “You don’t see may sandals around here.” He shrugged innocuously. “Not around this time of year, that is.” Snorting, Ahra turned on her heel and marched away. It was a lucky guess, she figured. Seeing her stomp away without giving her name, Hayaku again tagged along, scanning around nervously, swerving in and out of people as he ensued. His pace was agile and skilled in dodging through people, so it was not long until Ahra felt provoked. Hayaku soon matched her pace. She froze in her tracks and by misfortune, the young man bumped into her; she spun around, unwilling to forgive.

         “Get out of my way!” She snarled, pushing him with both hands. Thrown completely off balance, he fell over the sides of the dock mats, back-first into the murky canal with an attention-drawing splash that made the previously unaware street fall silent in anticipation. Hayaku’s black hair soon bobbed to the surface, and he waded back to the edges of the mats, pulling himself up to them and sitting down to catch his breath. The locals chattered anxiously, not caring to hide the fact that they were talking about what had just happened. They pointed at Hayaku with sharp fingers, and passing villagers on the mats stopped in their tracks to hiss and blather, tossing their heads from side to side. Wiping his sopping face, Hayaku searched the jittery people for Ahra, but she was nowhere to be seen, as if she had just disappeared.

         The people began to move again, and look away to continue on with their lives; from a corner of the street, came four men in red, coarse robes, marching down the street with their hands on the hilts of their broadswords. Hoods were pulled over their heads to show only mouths and shadowed eyes; they paused to talk with an old woman, who pointed at Hayaku repeatedly. Wringing his robes; Hayaku’s eyes grew larger as he saw the local enforcement advance to him. They circled him, yanking him to stand by his arms, careless of the roughness. Hayaku pulled away, but the armed men took him by brute force, leading him away from the chattering folk in a solemn march. Hayaku hung his head as he was forced on, but glanced over his shoulder once more to see Ahra. She was again, not there, and he as one of the guards shoved his head back down, he wondered if she were there at all.

 

         The end of the day came quickly for Ahra and Aya, so fast that they did not get the chance to eat dinner or notice the setting sun. When Ahra had come back from her neighborhood stroll, Aya was surprised to see she was so unwilling to speak of what she had seen. He knew she had gotten in an argument of some sort with someone, and there was nothing he could do now but wait for her to tell him about it.

         At this moment, she was in her bedroom, eating an impromptu dish of rice and peppers that Aya had cooked upon realizing the sun had gone down. He sat in his own bedroom, still unpacking his belongings, carefully and slowly as always. Wearily rubbing the back of his neck; Aya pulled one of the two trunks that remained full to him, feeling the gold wheels that formed the locks. Pushing the straying hair from his eyes, he squinted at the lock, turning each wheel to the number seven and hitting the button to open it. The clasps popped up, and Aya turned over the cover of the trunk to begin emptying that which laid within. He took out one of the many things shrouded with canvas cloth, holding in his hands hesitantly. Rubbing the bridge of his cold nose, Aya unwrapped it. It was a bundle of ratty scrolls bound by worn ribbons, the handles made of eroding jade. Searching through the piles of wrapped things, Aya pulled out another bundle. This one, once uncovered, was a pile of seven gold cuffs, all adorned with borders and studs of amber or diamond stones. Holding them in his hand, Aya sighed as they sparkled and glittered in the ocher candlelight; he set them next to the scrolls. Picking up one more package, Aya uncovered a scroll of another kind: it was canvas, and rolled on a tapestry-like cover to protected it. Also placing it on the bed, Aya then took on of the scrolls from the pile. Drawing it open, he lay it flat behind him upon the bed to see it.

         “Eighth of Fall, year of the Uton.” He mumbled, reading the first line of the black scrawling. Dates were written by the day, season, and clan year; this scroll was from eight years ago, when Ahra was only nine. Currently, it was the year of the Usa clan, the clan they were in now. Sitting back to stare at the portrait that lay beneath the date, he covered his mouth with his palm, in deep thought. The painting on the canvas was of a boy about the age of ten, as grave and piercing as it was beautiful and meticulous. His skin was pale and unmarked, and long, fine hair lay delicately around his sharp face, reaching far below where the portrait stopped, possibly to the small of his back, white as Aya’s was now. He was not painted with a smile, only a thin line for a slight scowl. His icy blue eyes were almost colorless, and the rich hues of his merlot and moss-colored robes made his stare ominous. Aya shook his head, overwhelmed by simply gazing at the old painting. The only life painted on the boy was a faint flush of pink for the cheeks. On the bottom of the scroll of canvas, was a name, written in red ink: Amaya Ta’al Aalya. The portrait was altogether dusty and peeling, but the last of the portraits that Aya had of this boy. “I may only begin to wonder,” Aya sighed, “how you have changed.” He spoke to the painting, beginning to roll it back up. Placing it back in its shroud, Aya stored it away in the trunk, along with the other scrolls. When he picked up the gold cuffs, he at first placed them in the trunk as well, but took them out again. They were not his to keep, but they were also not supposed to be given yet. Reaching beneath his bed to take out a small, green box, he placed them inside and closed the cover. He would give them to Ahra upon her betrothal, a dowry of some sort. It was a tradition in his clan, for the bride to adorn her wrists with bracelets and cuffs of gold during the time between the engagement and the marriage ceremony. Once the ceremony was complete, the bride would give them to her husband, who would then keep them, and pass them on to a daughter for her marriage, and so on. Aya had them ever since Ahra was seven years old. They were never worn before, and he had hoped to give them to her sooner, but as of now she remained uninterested in marriage, young men, or anything to do with other people, and it hindered her in every way. Taking a deep breath, Aya arose from his bed, though with difficulty because of his aching back, closing the trunk and ambling to his door. Turning at the end of the corridor beyond his bedroom, he eased up the stairwell, stopping at Ahra’s door. He held the green box close, and rapped on her cracked-open door with his knuckles. Since there was no answer, he went inside.

         Ahra lay backwards on her bed in a deep slumber, her arm hanging over the edge. The bowl of rice and peppers was half-eaten, abandoned at one of the window sills. Putting the box down on the lone chair in her bedroom; Aya went to her, rolling her to one side and then picking her up to place her the right way on her bed. Carefully setting her head on a pillow, Aya pulled back the sheets and blankets from beneath her, covering her cold robes and skin. His plain shoes stepped on cigarette butts that littered the floor, and he accidentally kicked the fork that was for her rice under the bed. Going back over to the chair; he took the box and placed it on Ahra’s blanketed stomach, taking hers arms and arranging them to hug the box. She breathed lightly as she slept on, her face unmoving and calm, unlike anything she showed while awake. Aya stroked her tangling locks of black hair, gazing at Ahra. Her face was without the angry creases between her brows, and without a frown or narrowed eyes. When those things were taken away, all that was left was the remarkable beauty that blessed her. Aya heaved a long exhale, feeling Ahra’s soft, ivory face.

         Leaning down to give Ahra a fatherly kiss upon her forehead, Aya retreated to her bedroom door, looking in at her sleeping as he moved out of the path of the door. Shaking his head, he closed the door slowly, the last sound from him the groaning steps of the stairway. With the last groan faded away, Ahra opened her eyes. She sat up in her bed, feeling where he kissed her, holding the box with one arm. Lowering it to her lap, she gazed at the box, having never seen it before. Flipping the cover aside, her jaw dropped at the ornate cuffs, and she quickly slammed the cover of the box back down, reaching around the edge of the bed to shove it beneath the bed into the dark abyss the space underneath seemed to be. Ahra fell back into her pillows, burying herself in them to hide her face. She knew what they meant, and to her they meant Aya would someday leave her. 





         White rice fizzled and popped in the iron skillet as Aya pushed it around with a wooden spoon to mix it with the chopped chicken meat, preparing lunch for Ahra and himself in the crammed kitchen. He backed away at the sweltering steam, peering into the dining room to see if Ahra had come downstairs yet. She had not. Swinging open a cabinet above him and the wood-burning stove, he grabbed two clay bowls and began to dish out the meal.

         “Ahra,” he called, carrying the bowls to the dining room table, “come and eat before we leave!” His voice echoed through the stairwell as he stood before the steps. She hadn’t been out of her room since breakfast, and even then she did not eat. Today was a crucial part of their integration to the village; Ahra and Aya were to go to the military academy, or the ‘soldier school’, and enroll Ahra in the obligatory classes. It was a law shared by all clans, that persons attend the military academy to learn about fighting, history, and other such subjects until they became an adult, or turned eighteen. Upon becoming an adult, a person could choose whether to remain at the academy and join the country’s army, or to leave and pursue other futures. If a person waited too long to re-enroll in a military academy when moving into a new place, it was usually taken as cowardice or anarchy.

         Aya paced at the bottom of the steps, running his fingers through his hair frustratingly.

         “You only have half a year left to your enlistment in the academy, Ahra.” He shouted. Rubbing his chin, Aya thought up some coercion. “If we arrive late, we shall stay late.” Not a second had passed before Ahra’s feet ran her to the stairwell, and she descended bitterly on the steps, ducking under Aya’s arm to sulk to the dining room.

         Aya sat down at the table, staring at Ahra. She glared at her food, taciturn and with her hands folded in her lap. The robes she wore were the Usa clan’s uniform for all military schools, a green caftan-like shirt that reached to her knees and sported long sleeves, and black pants. On the back of the shirt was the symbol of the Usa clan, the silhouette of horned rabbit in a circle. Ahra fussed over the collar, which was uncomfortably close around her neck. Aya watched her brood, waiting for her to simply leave the collar be and eat. She threw her hands to her lap, fed up with the shirt.

         “Do you like the uniform? It is very different from the last one you were issued.” Aya noted, pushing the rice in his own bowl around with his wood fork. Glowering at him as he chewed a bite, Ahra picked up her fork.

         “No. I don’t.” She snapped, digging around her rice for a piece of chicken.

         “I think it looks very nice on you.” Aya told. “Perhaps I should find some more green articles of clothing for you. It is a color that compliments such ashen skin.”

         “I don’t want green clothes.” Ahra mumbled, stabbing at the chicken in her bowl. “I already have a green robe.” There was a minute of silence as they ate slowly. Both of them had the same thing on their mind, the gold cuffs. Squirming in her seat, Ahra spat out the half-chewed chicken, aching to know why he gave them to her. “What are those bracelets for?” She demanded. Aya sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “What did you mean by ‘open yourself to others’?”

         “I only meant that you must begin to trust others.” He pointed out. “There is a point in your life when you shall have no choice but to do so.”

         “Why do I have to…” Ahra began; Aya held up his hand, and then gestured to her bowl.

         “Eat up, we are leaving soon.” He ended the conversation, right then and there, now preoccupied with scooping forkfuls of exactly fifteen grains of rice. Ahra, new to such brusque endings of an argument, retreated to her own food, thunderstruck that he had cut her off. Shoveling rice into her mouth, she hoped to finish before him. Even that small accomplishment would be sufficient.

         The canal streets were still full of muddy rainwater, causing the bazaars to again float upon the waters in flat boats and bargain over the rocking ripples. Chilly air that the mist had brought yesterday was gone, and gracing the village rooftops and the trees was a rare, warm breeze from the cloudy sun. Villagers peered over their shoulders at Ahra and Aya as they trekked to the military academy, curious as to where they were headed. Though not as suffocating as the first couple of days in Las’ta, the stares and whispers they endured were obvious and hard to ignore. Ahra shivered in her coat, despite the warm breeze, confused at the short-sleeved villagers and the occasional shirtless men that led their horses and oxen through the flooded streets. Other young men and women followed the same path as Ahra and Aya, going the ‘soldier school’ as well. Aya put his arm around Ahra so she would not turn a wrong corner; he almost seemed to be familiar with the village, for he knew where to go and how without consulting any locals at all. The dock mats, still fastened in place, bobbed as people walked on them, but Aya was as comfortable as everyone else on them. Yet wary about the mysteriously floating mats, Ahra stayed close to him.

         About a half a mile away from their new house, was the military academy. It was in a more secluded area of the village, away from the busy market streets and the houses. The academy was fenced in with entire, looming trunks, across from a communal garden that was full of overgrown, thorny trees with purple blossoms and a rushing stream that ran to the fences and escaped beyond it through a grill at the bottom.  It seemed to have no distinct path to it; the young men and women dressed in the green and black uniforms simply walked up to the towering, wood barrier, which began to open in two doors, drawing back to reveal a single building. Built on high ground, the academy was untouched by the floods, perfect for training young soldiers in all weather. The single building was with a slightly sloped roof, and had sliding doors all around the building, made of latticed wood and thick, paper-like material. A deck surrounded the entire building as well, and had steps to allow students to enter. Ahra and Aya stood before the gardens, waiting for the right moment to enter. Though he had gotten her this far, Aya could not make her walk up to the academy; it was, in the end, her choice.

         “Shall we?” Aya asked her. Ahra smoothed the hair at the back of her neck, scowling at the students who snuck looks behind themselves as they passed. With a quick pause, Ahra met glances with Aya. Her eyes were darkly rimmed, wide-open as always; she bit her lip, awaiting some reassurance. “Mind your behavior, and all shall be alright.” Aya sighed, urging her on. They began to walk towards the wood barrier with the other young persons. Stepping through the gates, they were the last to enter through the doors. Four men at each door began to push them shut, and at that point, there was no turning back on Ahra’s re-enrollment.

         In the acre upon which the building sat, there appeared to be a small house to the right side of the school. It was shabby and big enough for one room at the most; Ahra nudged Aya as they went to the stairs of the academy building, gesturing at it. Aya took a quick glimpse at the green hovel, then leaned to Ahra’s ear.

         “It is the instructor’s home… he must live here at the academy grounds for the sake of his work.” Aya told.

         Once entering the academy, there was an element of surprise to the simplicity of the building. The academy was one large, open room that was unexpectedly the only room of the entire building. Ahra gawked at the enormous place; it contained nothing more than piles of mats at the walls, a desk at one end of the long room and a chalkboard behind it. The walls that were not hid in mats were adorned abundantly with swords and daggers of all sorts, and quite obviously, banners with the Usa symbol hung all over the ceilings, a reminder to everyone who entered that they belonged to the Usa clan. Students casually took a mat from the piles, setting them around the edges of the walls to sit on, forming an organized rectangle in the room, as if the wood floor between them was a stadium of some kind, waiting for their teacher to appear through one of the many sliding doors. Oddly enough, the end of the room opposite from the teachers’ desk was left unoccupied. Ahra had never seen a military academy like this before, all the academies she had attended before were bigger, with multiple rooms and rows of benches and tables for the students. This academy was strangely set up; back in other clans, students did not gather around a place like it was a stage, and teachers did not appear after the students. She stood with Aya at one of the doors, unsure of whether to sit down as the others, or wait until the teachers came and approached them. Aya, seeing her begin to chew at her curled forefinger, patted her back.

         The students chatted quietly to themselves, sliding their eyes over to Ahra every so often. Most of them sat cross-legged, and leaned lazily on their arms while they conversed. Ahra observed that the gist of them had their hair tied back into ponytails or braids; a few had cropped manes that most likely defined them as lower class. Even in other clans, long hair was a luxury that was hard to maintain, but strived for. Only those who could find the time to keep their hair untangled and clean had long hair. One young man had his head shaved, meaning that he was an apprentice monk of some convent . Because of her jet-black hair, Ahra somewhat fit in with the appearance of an Usa clan member, as almost every person had black hair. Yet, she was paler and had honey-colored eyes, a rarity in any clan. If she were questioned about her own clan, there would be no doubt that her eyes would raise suspicion. The many green and hazel eyes darted back and forth at her, and already there was speculation that she did not belong.

         A door at the unoccupied end of the room slid open, and without a moment of hesitation, every student scrambled from their cross-legged position to sit on their feet and fold their hands austerely in their laps, in a more formal posture. Through the doorway, came two men, carrying a white bench. It was long and curled at the ends, on a small black platform that substituted for legs. They set it on the floor, at the empty place at the wall opposite of the desk. The two men, dressed in white and green robes and with shrouded faces, bowed to the students hastily, scampering out and returning with a small, tent-like canopy that was placed over the bench. Next through the door, came a low table, which was set before the canopy and bench. The students kept their positions, familiar with whatever this was. Ahra stared on, puzzled at what was happening. Aya rubbed his chin, wondering as well. The two shrouded men left, and the whole room was quiet.

         A young man dressed in green robes stepped into the building, sauntering to the canopied bench and giving a bow of his head, with him two guards dressed in red. His hair was very long, stopping at the middle of his back, a fine wave of snowy locks that fell delicately around his thin face. His features were sharp and slender; his nose was pointed and his mouth straight, neither a smile nor a frown. The students leaned forward in their positions, placing their foreheads on the floor in a bow to answer the young man’s. Aya pushed on Ahra’s shoulder, making her fall to her knees to bow. Though not a full bow like the others, she did so only because Aya loomed above her unrelentingly. He dropped to his knees as well, and afterwards they stood again. The young man withdrew onto the lavish bench, crossing one of his legs over his knee; one of the two men reappeared, timidly placing a silver platter with a matching teapot and bone china cups on the low table before the young man, then scurrying out of the room. Hands on the hilts of their swords, the two guards stood on either side of the canopied bench, ready to attack if needed. Ahra stared at the young man, who reclined comfortably; he set his chin in his palm, joining the other students in the wait for the instructor. His robes were the same as the others’, but were embroidered with fine patterns around the cuffs and collar, and made of opulent, silky material that complimented his fine hair. Even the shoes, something that was constantly in contact with dirt, were meticulously crafted with silk and thread. His eyes stayed on one unknown spot in the room, as if he were in deep thought; Ahra gawked at his icy eyes; they were subtly blue, pristine and alert; suddenly, as if he knew exactly where her pupils were, his chilling eyes slithered to hers, staring back at her. A feeling of piercing coldness hit Ahra; she dropped her gaze to the floor, bewildered and furious. Aya looked up at the young man, meeting glances with him. The young man nodded in a strange, frigid acknowledgment, then turned his head away. Ahra looked at the young man, then to Aya, whose face was also turned. 

             From the side of the room, opened another door. This time, a single man came forth: the teacher. Everyone in the room bowed to him; the young man in the back nodded his head. The man that appeared did not look like a teacher; he wore a beaten, leather coat that extended farther than his underlying robes, which were grey and loosely arranged. His head was wholly wrapped in bandages like the ones around Ahra’s neck and torso, including his face. Only his left eye remained uncovered, and the bandages continued down his neck and beneath his collars. The one, revealed eye was a dark shade of green, and the little bit of skin the was around it was pale and sickly. He paced around the open room, with a heavy walk that creaked the floors; he ambled as if he were ill, but upheld a posture that was severe and strict, holding a thin, wooden staff behind his back like a whip. Thin tufts of black hair escaped through tiny folds of the many bandages, and it was clear that he was well respected and revered, for the students straightened their backs as he passed them, scanning them for any lazy or chattering fools. When no such persons were found, he held the cane in the air like he was to begin to preach, then pointed at Ahra. Taken aback, Ahra glowered at the peculiar teacher, grinding her teeth. Now given the permission to stare, the students gazed insistently at her, expecting their teacher to continue.

         “Ahra Ona…” the teacher grumbled, “is your new classmate.” His voice was scratchy and gruff, and though muffled a bit by the bandages, was recognizably in pain. His cane slammed onto the ground, and he leaned on it with both hands. “She has come here from the Ebi clan, and will be here for the next six months, hopefully.” He announced. “Treat her as you do others, with respect.” There was an almost satirical groan to his last words, for none of the students’ faces smiled. The teacher waved his hand at Aya and Ahra, beckoning them to come to him. Aya urged her on, and she stepped across the room to the teacher, trailing behind Aya as if he were a shield. The teacher first inspected Aya, patting him on the shoulder. “My god, you old piece of dirt. You’re still alive, I see.” His bandages creased at the mouths, the result of a hearty grin. Aya gave a slight bow of the head.

         “Yes, Saburo, I am still breathing.” He greeted warmly. Ahra’s jaw dropped; she glared with disbelief at Aya. Stepping back to give Saburo a better look at Ahra, he pushed her closer to Saburo’s squinting eye.

         “She’s awfully thin… and pale.” He snorted, judging her like a piece of meat.

         “So are you.” Ahra hissed, her eyes as cross as his. Aya put his hand on her shoulder, scolding her silently. Saburo began to chuckle, to everyone’s amazement. He waved his finger at Ahra, chortling.

         “Very true.” Saburo leered. “Take a seat over at the swords. Amaya, you can sit at the corner.” He pointed first at a somewhat empty spot to the right, and then at a chair in the corresponding corner of the room. Ahra walked to the now meager pile of mats, grabbing one and seating herself; thinking: who was Amaya? Aya strolled to the chair in the corner, working himself slowly into the chair.

         “You are welcome to call me Aya, Saburo.” Aya noted, glancing at Ahra, whose fuse was now lit. Her mouth hung open, completely stunned that she knew even less about him than she ever thought.

         “Whatever.” Saburo shrugged.

         Suddenly, a loud thud came from a side of the room; the slam caused most to jump, and a few timid girls to shriek. The whole room was in disarray, loud and buzzing with the roused students and their chatter. Craning her neck to look through the persons in the row beside her, Ahra saw the cause of the disruption. A young man had fallen forward from his seat, crashing onto the floor headfirst. He lay motionless, yet no one did anything. The students calmed themselves and then returned to their postures, staring at the young man anxiously. His cropped hair covered his face, making him look dead. Saburo walked over to the young man, his grip tightening on the cane. Bending down to grab the young man’s collars, he yanked on them to galvanize him, pulling him up to his knees.

         “What’s wrong with you, Hayaku?” Saburo growled, shaking the young man by his collars. He sat back, rubbing his head achingly. Ahra recognized him; he was the young man she met in the street yesterday. Hayaku caressed his forehead, oblivious and dazed. Peering harder at him, Ahra noticed that he had a blackened eye. There were scrapes around his face, and bruises on his nose and cheeks that were ugly and purple. He looked dizzy and exhausted, in no condition to be at the military academy that day. The students whispered viciously to one another, shaking their heads and smirking beneath their turned-down faces. Hayaku swallowed, without an excuse.

         “I fell asleep…” he spoke hoarsely, as if he had been punched in the throat, “I couldn’t help it.” Saburo groaned, rubbing his eye.

         “This is the fifth time this week!” He roared; the students stifled caustic snickers, hissing to each other. “Silence!” Saburo commanded, throwing his cane at a row of the students, who ducked at the staff, which hit the wall. The young man at the end of the room shifted from his comfortable position to take a teacup, uninterested in the show. All of the snickering young men and women ceased immediately, and they straightened their postures cautiously. Turning back to Hayaku, who hung his head and rubbed his livid face, Saburo crossed his arms to carry on, this time uninterrupted. “How many hours of sleep did you get last night?” Saburo interrogated. Hayaku shook his head slowly.

         “Three…” he mumbled, voice dwindling. His crossed legs pushed him backwards as Saburo marched up to him, shaking his finger at Hayaku sternly.

         “You get some sleep… and then you come back to my academy.” He spat, gesturing at one of the many doors. Hayaku arose laboriously, shuffling out of the building and pushing open one of the doors with as much difficulty. Taking a last glimpse at Saburo and the room, he noticed Ahra, and lit up with indescribable shock. His bruised face was slow to disappear through the doorway, for he stared at Ahra as much as he could, unsure if she were really there. Ahra looked away, at the floor, hoping he did not recognize her. Once Hayaku was gone, to class seemed relieved. Saburo, infuriated, began to lecture wildly about obedience, and the class was lost in his raving and passionate motions. For two hours, Ahra sat quietly, drowning out Saburo’s ranting with her wondering. Yesterday, that young man, Hayaku, did not have such a battered face. What could have possibly happened to him after meeting her, she had no clue. The fellow students acted like nothing was wrong; was he always this way? Ahra could not see anything they would reject him for, but perhaps they did not need anything. Already, there was whispering about her, and she could hear most of it.

          At the end of the class, the last to leave were Ahra and Aya, Saburo, and the mysterious young man who sat in the canopied seat. All through the lecture, he seemed to be lost in his of thought, uninterested in anything that took place. His expression never changed; he was grave and silent, truly aloof from the rest of the students. He sat still in his chair, as if waiting for something, even though all the mats were stacked up and every one had left to go home or to work. He sipped his tea, quietly sitting as Aya approached Saburo.

         “I want to leave.” Ahra spoke up, squeezing her arms tight beneath her chest. She did not know if the chilly young man at the end of the room still gazed at her, but it felt that way, driving icy nails through her skull with his stare. Aya glanced at her, and then at the white-haired young man, who tapped his fingers along his sharp cheeks, face frozen straight.

         “Certainly not before a proper introductory, should you leave.” A voice spoke, silvery and appealing. Ahra spun around to the young man, who was the owner of the eloquent voice. He arose slowly and contently from his seat, placing his teacup on the table. He circled around the low table to join Saburo and Aya in a wide triangle, folding his hands neatly behind himself. “It is rare, that the village of Las’ta obtains newcomers.” Ahra did not get to her feet, instead stayed at the wall, leaning against it warily, unsure of this chilling, icy-eyed person. Though he stood amiably and curved his pale lips into a slight grin, there was an air about him that made her skin prickle.

         “Ahra,” Aya cleared his throat, going over to Ahra, taking her by the arm and leading her to him, “this is Lord Amaya Ta’al.” Aya stared at the young man solemnly, as if provoked by his equally snowy hair and still eyes. Ahra stood tall, but she was not as tall as this ‘lord’. He looked abut her own age, perhaps a year older. Up close, his irises were scarcely blue against his contracted, onyx pupils. His eyelids were dark, the rest of his complexion as pallid and fine as Ahra’s own. The penetrating stare he gave before had gone, for he now glimpsed at Aya’s eyes, which were as colorless as his. Amaya bowed deeply to Ahra, breaking the glance with Aya, but she did not bow back.

         “I want to leave.” She muttered to Aya, whose face was turned away.

         “Perhaps you should take her back to your home…” Amaya told Aya, “she does look faint.” He advocated distantly. His face remained cold and changeless, sending shivers up Ahra’s spine. Aya and Amaya met gazes once more, but this time neither of them turned away. There was an detached silence between them, and it was not until the young lord blinked that they resumed their previous statures. Aya took Ahra by the arm once more, escorting her out by a door at the far end of the building.  Ahra’s lips froze into a bitter scowl as she looked up at Aya, whose head was arrogantly high; they strode out with no further ado, and Ahra was pulled along. Amaya stared at her silently as they left through a sliding door, his wan lips splitting into a sharp grin.

         Aya and Ahra departed from the building, slipping through the parted barrier entrance into the fading groups of young men and women. Quiet and distracted by something unknown; Aya soon pulled her past the gardens, vanishing into the flocking streets to go home. Ahra kept her mouth shut and hurried along, for whatever had provoked Aya, she was not sure if it were her.

         Hayaku sat on the building porch, listlessly leaning against the walls. He had watched Ahra and Aya as they left, and now rested his chin in palm, recollecting the day before. From the far end of the academy, the young lord and the entourage of guards and servants exited the academy ground through a gateway behind the building, clattering away in a few black coaches led by their harnessed stallions.

         A door glided open to the right of Hayaku, and out stepped Saburo, hand wrapped tightly around his old and abused cane. Saburo collapsed onto the porch beside him, stretching his legs out achingly before himself. Dropping his head, Hayaku rubbed his face to stay awake, eyes averted from Saburo, who unlatched a bandage here and there, unraveling the spiraled bandages to lie around his neck. His uncovered face was the aftermath of a terrible fire; the warped stretches and ridges that pulled at his white skin left his right eye only a fold of distorted, soft tissue unable to peer through. The brow above was like plastered skin, grotesquely infused with a deep ridge on his misshapen nose that tugged the left corner of his lips, to a web-like stretch that lay across his jaw, flecked and discolored. Only his right eye and cheekbone remained free from deformation, even a web of scarred tissue invaded his skull, which remained bare even after thin, black hair had grown around it to compensate. Saburo ran a hand through his bristly hair, relieving the odd sensation of matted and turned hair that was always pressed down after being under wraps for so long. Hayaku put his face in his hands, drowsy and reluctant to face Saburo. Grabbing him by the chin, Saburo thrust Hayaku’s face towards his own, looking over the bruises and red scrapes that dotted him colorfully. He biffed Hayaku on the head, then shoved his hands into the large coat pockets on his sides, searching for something.

         “What in the hell happened to you now?” Saburo grumbled, pulling out some gauze and medical tape.

         “I fell off a loading horse.” Hayaku told, letting Saburo place the gauze over his battered eye, taking the tape from his fingers to secure it.

         “No, you didn’t.” Saburo scoffed. Hayaku held the bandage over his eye, pressing the tape to fasten itself to his skin. “I’ve had enough of your bullshit already.”

         “Who was that man, Amaya?” He wondered aloud. Saburo habitually ran his tongue over his sharp, bottom teeth, thinking tentatively about his answer. It surprised him that Hayaku was curious about the newcomers, or even that he was able to pay attention to them, if at all.

         “He’s an old friend of mine. I met him when I was thirteen… the stubborn mule doesn’t look a day older.” Saburo mused, confused by his own memory. “I think he was thirty when I met him… but, that’s not right.” He uttered; Saburo himself was forty-six, but Aya could not have been over thirty-eight.

         “Why does he follow Ahra around?” Hayaku prodded Saburo, galvanizing him from his apparently deceitful memories.

         “She’s under his guardianship… legally, Ahra is his ward.” He grunted, fishing out a strand of dry wood to gnaw on like a piece of grass from his pockets. Leaning his back against the building like Hayaku; Saburo chewed on the wood, watchful as Hayaku carefully rubbed his uncovered eye, ignoring the painful tinges that the bruises made. “Why do you ask?” Hayaku shrugged his shoulders, averting his eyes.

         “I was just curious.” He averred, setting his hands on his knees. Saburo stared at him, then turned to look at the grey sun as Hayaku had. It was certainly beautiful in its blackened clouds, as vague and ominous as the crows that rested upon treetops. Something in this day seemed different, as there was an uncertainty that surrounded Ahra and her guardian; and Saburo could not help but think that Las’ta was to change. As for whether it would become better or worse, he could not say.

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This can be continued in another document in my portfolio- titled "The End, chapter two". Thanks for reading!