Memory #1
Before the merge, we had a peaceful, predictable disarray between the warriors and us.
Or many would call them the heathens, brutes, unintelligent life forms.
There was never a day that we, the so-called superior race, and the warriors would fight to the death until a draw forced everyone to a standstill.
Hatred filled the bones of those around me on those fields, making it harder and harder to get any oxygen.
The warriors had more people, and if one fell, then another was bound to take the last one’s place.
It was difficult to tear anyone apart once the battle started, but back then, I could see the white markings glowing in their skin. How proud they were to carry their dead off into the wild as if this was nothing more than a celebration to them. They didn’t seem to care about the pain the dead would bring to the living. It was almost as if they never planned to come back from the battle.
But there was one who didn’t share the same joy.
I remember how he stood in front of me, bleeding, his eyes were different from the others.
They looked sorrowful and tired.
Like the weight of the world was trying to crush him.
His breathing was shallow like mine.
His hair was worn as long, heavy locs - thick ropes of deep black that brushed past his shoulders and swung when he moved. A few of them were wrapped in dark leather, tight coils marked with the faint battle-worn etchings, but most of them were left free, wild, and unapologetically his.
Compared to my copper red hair, which was pulled back to the nape of my neck with only a tie keeping it together, his hooked the curiosity in me. And I’m not ashamed to admit that a warrior caught my attention.
As a man, I know that most would have thought it would be the glowing markings on his neck working their way up to his scalp. A handsome violet adds a slight simmer to the locs. Or the way that he fought with the two stone-like blades for his tall, muscular frame, one would think he would wield something more like a sword, like most of his companions, or a hammer like the others, the same build as him.
But once you saw him on the battleground, you quickly figured out why it was close-range weapons and not something else. The speed he had was incomparable to anything else. He moved with grace as if he were a leaf floating on water.
The weapon in my hand rattled slightly. I didn’t look at my hand. I knew the adrenaline was leaving me the second we stopped fighting. No, I looked at his and saw the same tremble. At the time, I thought he was mocking me until I saw the slight nod of acknowledgment.
And slight dismay due to the fight ending.
Everyone knew that the only reason it ended was due to the leaders calling for a fragile truce that was bound to be broken within a week.
Whether by us wanting something off their planet and coming here to Orun to take it. Or they go to Velonte and try to steal one of our machines during the winter for heat or cool air in the summer.
There is always a reason for us to fight each other every week.
So why did he look so sad that day?
