The Man With The Spotless Heart

The First Light's Hunt takes place on the first day of every week. When the emerald sun sits up, groggy with sleep, and drags itself from the coffin of the night to hang high and stiffly in the sky, a group of six Tarnanites, ceremoniously chosen at random the day before, treks to the edges of The Skulken Forest where they hunt enough meat to keep the bellies of the entire village sweet with warmth and fullness that week.

The Skulken Forest is all gargantuan purple trees, twisted like the arthrtic limbs of a village elder. Named so for the most fearsome creatures that inhabit it. The 6 and a half foot long drooling beasts who crawl on all fours, their rotund bellies scraping the ground. The skulken's bodies are covered in armor-like ice white scales, besides a soft patch of smooth, penetrable skin that runs in a thin line from throat to underbelly to genitals and down the underside of their spiked tails. Their mouths are a three row death trap of diamond hard teeth that secrete viscous black poison when the jaws are locked. Although they can cover ground at shockingly swift speeds, over four times faster than the average Tarnanite, skulkens are essentially blind and can be easily subdued if the hunter is quiet and skilled. For this reason the hunting party is always headed by three of Tarnan's strongest warriors, the leader of which is always Jora.

The meat beneath the terrible scales is hearty and sweet. One skulken cleaned and dissected properly is enough to feed five Tarnanite families, not counting the stinking viscera that is usually thrown out to rot or fed to prisoners in The Keep below the castle. There is an abundance of the ferocious animals in the forest but the hunting party only kills what is needed for the week. Jora makes certain of this.

Tarnanites are instructed to do so in The Holy Scrolls. As all are encouraged to do, Jora uses them to govern himself.

But murder of the innocents is the gravest sin. It is unforgivable and he who sheds the blood of an innocent shall never ascend into the goodness of the 13 Gods' embrace. All life is precious and to be protected. A Tarnanite must never kill for his own gain, for power, or glory. For riches, prestige or to show himself skillful, strong, or bold. For envy, out of wrath, or passion. A Tarnanite may only extinguish the life of another out of necessity. Only when his very existence is being threatened by the life he wishes to extinguish. Even the lives of the lesser creatures which the 13 Gods have bestowed upon you for nourishment are to be protected. When a Tarnanite hungers let him kill only to survive so that no innocent blood might be shed.

It is one of the many passages of The Holy Scrolls that Jora has taken it upon himself to memorize. War pains him as nothing else does, but he is good at war. He is good at the hunt and he can't deny the saccahrine rush that struts up his spine and fills his brain when he pulls taut on an arrow, let's it fly and sink into the soft, white throat of a skulken hundreds of meters away. The satisfaction that comes in watching the great beast topple onto it's side, it's stubby limbs quivering as the life rushes from it's body. Nothing else gives him the same unadulterated joy.

Admittedly, this unnerves him. Makes him feel monstrous. He lies awake at night staring up into the shadows dancing on his ceiling, pleading with the gods to make him better. Cleaner. A man with a spotless heart.

These feelings have multiplied and almost overpower him during that morning's hunt as his brain replays his earlier interaction with the King over and over again. No, the former king, Hammond. You're the king now, he reminds himself. It doesn't seem real. None of it feels real. The threat of another war coming. The royal amulet that burns like the secret it is tucked beneath the coarse neck of his tunic.

Jora powers through the hunt as usual, slaying as many skulken as needed, with a crystalline focus that masks the tornado of emotion funneling through his head. Still he's glad when it's over and he and the rest of the hunting party get to set up camp and begin cleaning and dissecting the beasts to cart the meat back to the village. The other two warriors in the party this morning are Amerra and Nadir. He can't let his guard down around either of them.

With Amerra it's because he is in love with her. Has been since he first laid eyes on her as she sparred with her father's sword in the warrior compound, her face like a violent symphony. And then later, after toppling her opponent into the dirt, he was charmed by her good natured laughter, rising through the trees like a sweltering orchestra. When he is alone with her he feels like something on the verge of bursting, like there are a million bouquets of flowers in his chest ready to bloom if only he could create enough space for them.

He has never said these things to her. He has never even dared to kiss her. But looking at her now out of the corner of his eye, her agreeable features spattered with blood and sweat, silver brows furrowed hard down the middle as she, elbow deep in blood and gristle, unblinkingly guts the beast she'd helped fell mere moments ago, he knows that when he comes of age he will ask her to Bind with him.

Binding is something Jora thinks about often. The physical manifestation of love between Tarnanites. It is a spiritual connection between minds and souls and a physical connection between bodies. Once Bound to another Tarnanite you are Bound to them forever. Heart, body, mind, and soul. The Binding can only be broken by death.

It is said to be painful. The initial process. The penetration of another into your inner man. A red hot searing sensation as you wriggle your way into their thoughts. The piercing white noise of having someone else's consciousness invade your own skull. The idea of never truly being alone again. Inescapably belonging to the other. Their inner voice beside your own, listening, comforting, judging. Love working as the invisible, perhaps occasionally uncomfortable umbilical cord between you.

Yet it is also pleasurable. The physical joining of bodies. The limbs and spaces and curves making room for one another like a puzzle that finally has enough pieces to be completed. Offspring can only be produced by two Tarnanites who are Bound to one another, love making without Binding is fruitless. Tarnanites are biologically built for selfishness. Physiologically speaking, the womb will not unlock for someone who does not share your consciousness, for someone who is not essentially your own self.

Life is short for a warrior. Binding with Amerra would make the pains and darkness of Jora's past worthwhile even if he can't expect to have much of a future. In his head he has already designed their Binding rings. He has already imagined Hammond, the closest thing he has to a father, officiating their ceremony.

As if his thoughts of her had tapped her shoulder, Amerra looks up at him. She holds his gaze for a moment before pulling a silly face. Jora pulls one back.

With Nadir it is because Jora hates him. It's a feeling he's ashamed of. One he tries to kill. But it prowls close to the walls, pacing the floor of his belly like a tiger hungry to strike. Demanding to be fed.

Nadir is boisterous. Loud. Ugly. His soul is a dirty rag which, no matter how many times you ring it out, can not be rid of it's blackness. No one seems to like him much which Jora takes comfort in. No one except Amerra who willingly gives the gift of her open smile and glittery gaze to anyone. But Nadir is a fearsome warrior and what he lacks in charm he more than makes up for in combat skills. He had fought alongside Jora and the others in the First War but had been severely wounded and forced to withdraw from the battle holding his guts in place with his shaking hands. He envies Jora his title and prestige and does nothing to keep it secret. And so the animosity is mutual.

Jora turns his head to catch a glimpse of Nadir and finds that the other boy is already looking at him.

"Aye," says Nadir roughly. His voice bears the coarse accent of a peasant's bloodline. He has never set foot inside the castle and despite the superficial fame of being a renowned warrior probably never will. He had been a street urchin too, orphaned by disease. But loneliness had made him hard and unforgiving and cruel. "Are you deaf?"

"What?" asks Jora. Careful to keep his tone neutral despite the instant flames of irritation licking at his jaw. He's still elbow deep in viscera. He tries to concentrate stalwartly on the task. Separating the wet, warm mush. Slicing through ropes of flesh with his bloodied knife.

"I said where were you last night? I passed your cot in the warrior's compound and it was empty." Nadir's face is empty too, but his words are accusatory. He has stopped concentrating on the skulken he was skinning and seems to be challenging The Champion with his tone.

"Aye, Nadir. Were you aiming to watch Jora sleep?" Amerra calls with a big grin. She wipes her arm across her face smearing black blood all down her purple chin. "How romantic," she laughs. Nadir carries on with his line of questioning as if she hadn't spoken.

"Well? Where were you, Champion?" he throws the word like a spinning blade off his tongue, hoping it will catch Jora between the eyes.

"The King summoned me to the castle," Jora says, his gaze still trained on the work he's doing with his hands. "If you must know". He cuts the liver free and sets it aside.

"Ah. Sucking the King's cock as usual."

"Nadir." Amerra warns him, sharply.

"Haven't you ever thought about it? Why the King has no heirs? Maybe the queen's flesh is untouched. Maybe he prefers dangly bits between the-"

The force of Jora's knife biting down into the sorting table rings out across the entire hunting party. The area is engulfed in a silence so thick you could feel it pressing down across your shoulders, the back of your neck. The other Tarnanites in the hunting party stare stunned. Amerra bites her lip. Nadir is watching him, unfazed. The hint of a smile tickling the corners of his lips.

"The Holy Scriptures would find no fault in that," says Jora carefully, as if each word is a two pound weight on his tongue. "But you are aiming to use your tongue for evil and that is condemnable by the 13 Gods. You will speak of your leaders with nothing but respect."

Nadir laughs wildly, the sound bouncing crazily on the breeze. The other Tarnanites in the hunting party shift uncomfortably.

"You think you are the perfect specimen of the gods. You think you are above flaw and sin but you're a dirty orphan just like me," he says.

"Nadir, stop. That's enough," Amerra snaps at him, but there's a strange and vibrant light in Nadir's eyes. His mouth continues moving like a thing possessed.

" Your parents died and their bodies were burned to ashes in a pit just like mine. No matter what The King tells you to your face he sees you as that worthless street urchin. You are not his son, Champion."

Rage is spinning in Jora's head and in his chest now. Rushing through every limb. Villifying every beat of his heart. His tongue is a length of barbed wire curled up against the roof of his mouth, he tries to hold the words back, but they're slicing through his flesh and before he knows it they've already been spoken.

"Hammond is to pronounce me King."

"That's a lie," Nadir responds flatly, with no hesitation.

"Hammond is to pronounce me King," Jora says again raising his voice so that everyone in the hunting party can hear, he looks at each of them in turn, meeting their eyes. Amerra's look strangely full of pain.

"That's a lie! You're lying!" Nadir snarls. Jora pulls the royal amulet from beneath his shirt. The small crowd comes alive with gasps. With murmurs of What is the meaning of this? And Is The King well? Amerra's hands fly to her face. Now, Nadir is turning blue with rage.

"Duel me for it," he demands. He drops his skinning knife and begins moving towards the Champion, reaching hotly behind himself to pull his weapons from the sheaths strapped to his back.

"I will do no such thing," says Jora.

Amerra steps between them, reaching for her own sword. "Nadir, I won't let you hurt him. If you attempt to strike I will strike first."

Nadir smacks her hard across the face, her body falling roughly to the dirt.

"You're no Champion, then. You're a coward," he continues without missing a beat, circling Jora now.

Jora steps towards him, his body pulsing with anger, but Amerra catches his gaze and shakes her head. Her hair is in her open mouth, her eyes wide with fright. Be calm, he demands of himself. Calm. Please. Your temper. No violence. You've already broken the King's commands. You've already ruined so much.

"I will not fight you, I have no reason to."

"You can't beat me. Is that it? You're afraid of losing your pathetic title? Your shallow prestige?" Nadir accuses him, raising his voice.

"You're not fit to be King, then. Prove to me that I am not stronger. Faster than you. More skilled with a bow."

In one fluid motion, Nadir sets up an arrow, pulls back on it taut, and lets it fly deep into the bowels of the woods. It lands straight and true in the throat of a skulken. The animal cries out in pain and staggers onto it's side. It closes it's eyes and dies in the dirt.

Jora grabs him roughly by the throat then, his anger exploding out of him. "You shed innocent blood before the gods?!" he demands.

"Aye. There it is," says Nadir, again with a smile. "The violence in you. The proof that you are just like me."

He swings at Jora, his callus knuckles brushing his chin. The returning strike bloodies Nadir's nose.