Idir Vivajgon, first to bear the name, unifier of the Isle, winner of twelve-and-twelve battles

They began boiling the bodies before dawn.

Twenty four and one men were thrown in pairs into the gurgling, steaming pit so that the jarojrit could cleanse their bones and let their souls rejoin the cloud... that is, if Vivajgon was to believe what the wisemen whispered in the thick of the northern woods.

Only moments earlier, before the cotton field turned red with blood, those corpses had been fighters of noble name and great renown. Their brow proudly sported the symbols of their great houses on bandanas of soft muslin, dyed red with donkey blood, but their names had disappeared with the setting sun.

Vivajgon’s men had pleaded with him, saying that gifting them to the vultures, as the the royal army had done with any other enemy, would anger those noblemen’s hearth spirits. "powerful families keep powerful spirits." They murmured, their brow sticky with sweat.

The Idir was reluctant to allow such superstitions in his camp.

“Foolish beliefs like these insult our God,” the Jarviri, a royal Priest had exclaimed, raucous and grave, “thrice may he be blessed, and thrice more,”.

Vivajgon had initally been inclined to agree -- but then the King saw the fear in Athir’s eyes, and the doubts and worries that afflicted his men.

Igrin Athir, Vivajgon's right hand, was a fearsome fighter, a man who lived by his actions. Together, Vivajgon and Athir the northman had been the winners of many battles and the conquerors of the White Isle. That man did not fear the battleground - but it was a peculiarity of northmen, fearing the dead more than the living.

"Very well," The King had decreed, "for the love I bear you, brother."

Two hours later, the Idir was still standing vigil, seemingly unable to step aside, as the slaves cleaned the pulp away. Twenty five noble foes and all their men, had died within the end of the day.

For the first time in his life, the man doubted his holy purpose.

For more than two decades, Vivagjon had drunk the words of his priests, the stories of the great Nassaine Emperors and of their peaceful reign over t'Ekäran - and for more than two decades he had prepared for that very moment, his landing on the mainland, his conquest of the cities of the Old Empire, one by one... but now, as the bodies of brave men whirled in the white water, his heart sank. They had won the battle and they had won Argin, the city of Brass, but the fight had been uselessly bloody, and now there was none left to rule it.

Of the twelve-and-twelve battles he had fought in his life -- and the twelve and twelve he had won -- the Idir had never seen a costlier one, and he was never left so shaken.

Idir Vivajgon was fighting for good, that much was indisputable. He was struggling for the rebirth of a legacy and for the pride of his blood and his men and yet, as he gave an honourable death to honourable men, the King of Nassai, destined to be Emperor of t'Ekäran, was treading dangerously close to the truth.

As he stood, he understood that he was not a warrior, not truly, not in his heart.

His mouth turned sour with bile when he realised he was not a vessel of Akövir - thrice may his name be blessed, and thrice again.

His head started pounding when he found out he was just a man who was gifted an army and a sword of dastathri and was tasked with the conquest of the world.

Vivajgon meant courageous, ready for battle, and he had won many in his life -- Or so he thought.

Vivajgon was not even the winner of twelve-and-twelve battles. He was but a strategist who had fought as little as possible, gained as much as possible and mediated when he could. That day he had fought for the first time in his life; four of the twenty four victories that he was attributed had been surrenders, five stalemates turned into peace and subjugation, ten skirmishes on inferior foes, six jokes.

And yet everyone hailed him as a hero, as their Idir, as their ruler.

The last man was cleansed.

There was nothing left to see, and now the sun was higher on the horizon. The men had stood vigil with their King, all covered in blood and dirt.

They all looked at him, now. They needed rest, they wanted to feast and put the horrors of the battle behind them... their Idir knew that better than anyone.

"Jaroirit!" He called the slaves. "Prepare the tents."

When the Idir stepped away from the skeletons of his enemies, the army was finally allowed to cheer.

The cotton tents of royal yellow were hastily built and the high ranking heroes that had fought by the Idir's side were all present, on their knees.

"We repeat the six immortal truths:" He began, the priest watching him expectantly, "to act worthy of his name, to live with honour, to live as the river flows, to live humbly, to live by action, to live as those before and after us."

The men repeated them after him, and then the room fell silent.

"Today we fought bravely, truly and with honour. Many were lost, but we must live as the river flows, as those before and after us. We must go on."

He sat back on his gilded chair, a serene expression on his face. The Idir was replenished by his men's admiration, he thrived from it -- it made him forget himself and only mind the greater cause.

"Today we feast another victory."

"Twelve, twelve and one!"

The men cheered, and the feast started.

Foods of every kind were brought inside by the most beautiful shivanari, who then remained in the tent to entertain and please the warriors. They had skin like honey and copper and brass and curled wigs the colour of blood.

The men were hungry for more than just food: they craved life itself and an escape from the death they had almost met on the battlefield.

The King received none of that. It was not his moment to celebrate.

Vivajgon sat on the throne next to the Great Priest, staff in hand. He fasted as a King was supposed to do after a victory: the feast was for those who sacrificed their lives for him.

At the end of the revelty, however, the army brought him gifts, as was the custom, the spoils of war. He would refuse most of them, again, as was the custom, and grant them to the gift-givers: he could only accept one.

“Ti rassinaj, Idir.” They would say, kneeling on both knees, “I gift you this, my King.” Then they would step forth with what they had taken from the great pile of riches that was sacked from the city of Brass.

Kangaroo skins scarce to be counted, barrels of vanilla from the Isle, marble statuettes from the tall walls of the city and, most of all, argitri, Brass. Brass weapons, brass darts, brass jewels, brass helmets.

Then after many gifts refused, came an unexpected one: five and twenty squares of pure muslin, soaked in red dye, embroidered with five and twenty different symbols.

They had been sown together to make a large, square flag.

“Ti rassinaj, Idir.” One of his commanders said, swollen with pride. “This flag is made of the houses you have vanquished, my *Idir. The headresses they wore in battle are now yours to swing upon the city you have conquered - a symbol of your might, and valor on the battlefield. A herald of your arrival in the wars to come, a tale of your destiny as emperor of t’Ekaran.”

The King hesitated, and his people saw it.

For an eternal moment, silent reigned in the Idir’s golden tent.

“I take it.”

He had always won, all his life... why was he so afraid?

Away from the cheers of the feast, away from the blinding light of that endless summer day, away from everything that could have stirred his soul, the King walked, barefoot, by the river.

The reflection of the moon glowed in the slow-streaming Rafadin, the small arm, as the king dipped his feet in the cold water.

He missed the fresh summer fogs of Nassai. He missed the comfort of his villa in Fedrin, the frescoes on his room. He missed the comfort of his past life, an ambitionless world where he could live day by day… as the river flows.

His knees sunk in the river.

“Idir Vivajgon,” He said aloud, to the empty nothingness, “first to bear the name, unifier of the Isle, winner of twelve-twelve-and-one battles, bearer of the blood banner.” With every death, a new title was born.

He ought to be glad, he knew it. But he could not see the future beyond that endless war.

They would ride to Niagin next, take the city and its great rice fields, vanquish their men, enslave their women and children and move on south, where they would do more of the same.

In whose name? God’s? the priests’? Vivajgon’s own?

He shivered when his hips touched the water, the wet cloth splashing around it.

He could still see the face of his enemy.

The King of Argin did not wear a muslin band like his noble comrades. On his head were feathers and summer flowers. His hair was the most beautiful thing Vivajgon had ever seen… and only hours before, Vivajgon had carved through it with his bronze sword.

Was that his god-given duty? Destroying cities, destroying lives, destroying beauty?

How can there be peace when all we wage is war? How can there be life, if all we bring is death?

But, as his torso turned wet with the waters of the river, another voice spoke inside him.

Would you know life, without death? How can peace be achieved, if there is no war?

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and pushed his head into the water.

When he emerged, the Small Arm had cleared every doubt, a baptism much greater than any lengri the priests had ever performed in the royal gargänthir.

His clothes were soaked with the waters of the river, but the dust was gone, evaporated in the weak current. He stood tall on the bank, the fain breeze bringing him a chill.

He did not shiver.

“Idir Vivajgon,” he said again. His voice was graver now, but certain. “first to bear the name, unifier of the Isle, winner of twelve-twelve-and-one battles and many more, bearer of the blood banner.”

There was no peace without war. There was no death without life. Vivajgon would know: that day he had died and the waters had brought him back.