The Grey Ones

JUNIPER

When she woke up that morning, she was devastated. She had gone to bed angry but awoke in fear. She had been so naive and so foolish as to believe she could do something to stop the invasion and to build a diplomatic relationship with the Kas. On top of that, she had lost her temper. She was certain that such insolence wouldn’t go unpunished.

When he offered to take her for a walk, she was terrified at first. It was uncharacteristic of him, and it frightened her. But she accepted; it was a simple and innocent request and it would be insulting if she refused him.

While having her tea, she thought about how to apologise to him in a way that would be pleasing to the Vasaath—it couldn’t be too emotional, nor could it be too arrogant. It had to be just right. One small mistake, and he might just throw her out, and then where would she go? She would rather die than go back to her father. But then, he told her that he was not angry with her, that she had done no wrong. He had even offered her his arm, like a real gentleman.

She hesitated, but the second she placed her hand on his arm, her heart jolted. A stone lifted from her chest and had she not held on to him, she would have floated away. Now, they just strolled along the beach.

It was indeed strange, but knowing that he wasn’t cross with her—that he wouldn’t drive her away—was a relief greater than she could have anticipated. She found herself holding on to him a bit tighter than necessary, but he did not seem to notice.

She kept stealing glances at him, but he kept his gaze straight ahead. The feelings she had for the general were feelings she had never felt for any man. If he were to turn her away, it would mean with undisputed certainty that he did not hold any feelings but hatred and spite towards her. Now, however—would she dare to hope? Was it truly as impossible as she thought it would be?

“My lord,” she said carefully. “I am sorry to bother you with this question, and I might be foolish, but why do you still receive me as your guest when there is no longer an agreement? You have no obligation to protect me. In fact—” She swallowed. “It would be more logical for you to keep me as your prisoner than as your guest.” She knew she might be poking the lion once more, but her heart yearned to know.

A corner of his mouth curled upwards. “Why would you come back if you feared there was a risk I’d make you my prisoner?”

She bit her lip. “I don’t know.”

He pulled his brows together and slowly came to a halt as he looked out over the ocean. He looked so regal, so majestic, in the sunlight.

“What I said last night was unfair to you,” said he, “but the question has itched my mind since you came back—why did you?” He looked at her, his golden eyes warm and full of sunshine. “You knew the agreement was over, you know that running to the enemy is seldom wise, so why did you return here?”

She knew not what to answer him. She couldn’t tell him about her nonsensical romantic dreams, so the closest truthful answer she could think of was, “I had nowhere else to go.”

He took quite a step closer, looked deep into her eyes, and asked, his voice oddly strained, “Is that the only reason?”

No, she thought. No indeed. She looked at him, hoping that perhaps he could read her mind so that she wouldn’t have to say it. But he could not read minds, and she could not say it.

In the end, she shook her head. “You’re not my enemy, and I—” Biting her lip, she felt her cheeks redden. “I feel safe here, safer than with my father. He wanted to sell me, but you respect me.”

“I do.”

“Thank you.”

They stood looking at each other for a long while. Juniper could not will herself to look away from his golden gaze. They were close, but did not touch. In all the romantic fairytales she had heard and read in her youth, this was the moment the knight would kiss the princess—but this was not a fairytale, and he was not a knight. It was foolish of her to think there was anything between them, but she felt it. It was tangible in the silence. Was she mad?

After what seemed like a moment lost in time, the Vasaath nodded and gestured for her to continue along the beach. They spoke no more, and when they returned to the fort, the Vasaath made use of the fine weather and trained with his soldiers.

Juniper sat by the battlements and observed with awe and noticed that his movements were indeed perfect—beautiful. Powerful, precise, gracious. His size did not matter as he perfected each movement and seamlessly transitioned into another.

He instructed the other warriors, some visibly older than himself, and they all listened and learnt—but he listened to them as well, learning from them as much as they learnt from him. It was as though they all had a mutual understanding that even though the Vasaath was the general, some experience came with age.

Indeed, Juniper didn’t know what they were saying to each other, but she could read their expressions fairly well. She could see the respect in the soldiers’ faces as well as in the Vasaath’s. She wondered if it was respect taught in their culture, or if it was respect taught amongst soldiers.

“I get exhausted just by looking at them.” Kasethen joined her with a great sigh. “Those weapons are heavier than they look.”

Juniper smiled. “So you have fought, yourself?”

“Me?” Kasethen sounded rather surprised. “No! The Vasaath wouldn’t let me anywhere near a battlefield.”

“Oh. It’s because he wants to protect you, I assume.”

Kasethen chuckled. “No, not at all. If it comes to it, I can defend myself. All Kas can. No, he wouldn’t let me anywhere near a battlefield because it isn’t enough to know how to fight—one must know how to defend one’s left.”

Juniper was intrigued. “One’s left?”

Kasethen nodded at the soldiers in training. “Every fool could learn how to swing a sword. That doesn’t make a soldier. To fight in an army is to fight in a chain. Everyone has their roles to play, even in war. One’s ‘left’ is the person to your left, and the one you are tasked to defend. That way, everyone has responsibility for the next.”

Juniper gazed at the soldiers as they sparred and it seemed as though they were almost dancing.

“They fight in patterns. Look at the Vasaath now—he is teaching them a move called the viper; it’s a quick jab forwards, where the power behind it travels from the starting leg, through the torso, into the arm, and extends even beyond the tip of the sword. It’s a lethal move, but requires precision and focus. It leaves the soldier vulnerable to attacks from the side.”

Letting her eyes trail the general’s form as he demonstrated the movement.

Kasethen chuckled. “To be able to perform such a move with the required confidence, you have to know someone will defend you if the enemy seizes the opportunity.”

She gazed at the advisor as he reached his hand out to her and spread his fingers, moved them around, turned the hand a few times, and curled it into a fist before he opened it again.

“An army is like a hand; the fingers are all separate parts, but together they create a tool that can make wonders. They never work against each other, or hinder one another, but moves like a single entity. It’s important to understand this synergy if you are a soldier.” He smiled. “I, on the other hand, would get both myself and everyone else killed.”

Juniper smiled. “I understand why your role is to share knowledge. It’s fascinating, hearing your philosophies on war and fighting. My father never allowed me to be curious about such matters.”

“Oh, I believe most armies share this philosophy,” said Kasethen. “As a war advisor, I have to. The biggest mistake would be to underestimate oneʼs enemies. If we go into battle believing we are better than our enemies, it does not inspire us to work harder, and leaves room for arrogance which often leads to lethal mistakes.”

They were silent for a few moments, both observing the beauty of the soldiers.

“The Vasaath knows this all too well,” said Kasethen. “He was just a young kasaath at that time, but his battalion was sent out to secure a piece of land on the Western Isles. The former Vasaath was a vain man—arrogant, headstrong. He underestimated the sheer will of the enemies—their ingenuity and creativity. We suffered a brutal defeat that day. Only a handful of soldiers survived. The Vasaath was one.”

Juniper looked at the large Kas training with his soldiers, and she felt a sudden sting of compassion in her heart. “How did he survive?”

“He has been a very formidable warrior all his life,” said Kasethen. “He survived because he fought well.”

“How did he come to be the Vasaath?” she asked.

Kasethen smiled. “You ought to ask him that, yourself.”

“Oh.” Juniper looked down on her lap.

The advisor sighed. “For every member of the Triumvirate, the appointment process is different. The Great Mother, the Vasmenaan, is chosen from a very young age. She serves alongside the current Vasmenaan and when the Vasmenaan leaves this life, legends has it that the soul of the Mother enters the new body, the Chosen One, and the new Mother arises. The leader of our philosophy, the Vasenon, is elected from a council of scholars and representatives once the former leader has left this life. Our war leader, the Vasaath, is appointed by trial.”

Carefully, she looked up.

“Anyone of our people, but mostly within the Saath, is allowed to challenge the leader and the Triumvirate decides whether or not the Vasaath can accept the challenge. If so, the two warriors fight to the death. If the Vasaath wins, he remains the leader. If the challenger wins, he is appointed as the new Vasaath.”

“So, the Vasaath is who he is because he defeated the old one?”

“He did,” said Kasethen, “and it was the fight of the century. He was quite young, you see. About your age. He wasn’t stronger or more proficient than the former Vasaath, but he was clever and strategic. He could keep his head cool while the former general could not. Again, he underestimated his opponent, and it finally became his downfall. The Vasaath has led our armies to victory for about a decade now. Not once has he lost a battle.”

Juniper had never seen the Vasaath truly fight, but she could very well imagine him being the greatest fighter the world had ever seen.

“Of course,” Kasethen continued, “ascending and becoming Vasaath meant he had to leave a lot of things we normally take for granted, behind. The burden is heavy, and the position is, well, lonely.”

“How is that?” She asked, but her heart tightened. Was he truly lonely? She knew that feeling all too well. “The superiors here get everything they could ever want—they aren’t denied anything.”

“The Vasaath has more restrictions than you could ever imagine, my lady,” said Kasethen. “There are things he is denied that others are not. Simple things, like indulgences, revelry, and even love. But he is a man like any other, and so the burden weighs heavier with time.”

Juniper closed her hands together on her lap. How terribly sad, she thought. “That must be difficult for him.”

“Indeed,” said Kasethen. “And even if he wanted to break the rules, just once, not a single soul in our society would ever dare to indulge him. They respect him, the rules, and the traditions too much. You see, a member of the Triumvirate has his or her own court of advisors, teachers, healers—everything. They are specially trained and educated to oblige the Triumvirate. It is improper for someone else of our people to tend to their needs, whatever they might be, and he would never ask it of anyone within the Kasenon.”

Her heartbeats quickened. “But he would break the rules, if someone was willing to indulge him?”

Kasethen seemed to ponder this. “I would not know. No one has ever dared before.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Of course, that would have to be someone outside the Kasenon, someone not bound by our laws and rules.”

Juniper hummed, but her heart was still beating frantically. Perhaps she wasn’t going mad—perhaps she had been right, feeling the tension. Perhaps he cared about her more intimately than he had let on, or she was just desperate.

When dinnertime arrived, Juniper was reading inside the Vasaath’s tent. Or, at least she tried. When the Vasaath had been done with his training and entered the tent, his magnificent build had been emphasised by the physical exercise and Juniper had found it quite difficult to focus on the words on the page.

When they had their supper, the silence between them was agony. He did not seem to mind it, but Juniper found the silence very uncomfortable. She tried to dull it down with wine, but the wine was strong and she was not a very experienced drinker.

“Kasethen told me about how you became the Vasaath,” said she once her courage had risen, but her speech was already a bit blurred.

“Did he, now?” His voice wasn’t surprised, but curious. “And what did he say?”

“He said that you challenged the last Vasaath, and won.”

He looked at her and then, he smiled. It was faint, but it was indeed a smile. “I did win. I thought I wouldn’t, but I did.”

“Were you badly hurt?”

“Yes.” He rose to make himself some tea.

He asked her if she wanted some, but Juniper only raised her glass of wine with a content smile.

He huffed, nodded, and returned to the table with a cup for himself. He sat down next to her and sighed. “He almost cut me in half, right here.” He showed her a deep scar that stretched over the right side of his abdomen and back. “When he buried his axe in me, I plunged my sword into his neck. I think he was aiming for my neck as well, but in the end, I was simply the better fighter.”

She looked at his scar in terror—it was dark against his grey skin, but it seemed strangely befitting. She had noticed it before but she hadn’t thought of it as more remarkable than the next scar. Now, when she knew it was the reminder of the beast he defeated to become who he was, she saw it clearly. There was a sudden urge to touch it, but she refrained. She wondered how many other times he had been close to losing his life.

She looked up at him. “Have you ever been challenged?”

“Of course,” said he and leaned on his elbow against the table. “I was young when I ascended, and there were many of my seniors who did not agree. I have fought many strong and brave warriors to secure my position.”

“Do they still challenge you?”

He leaned closer, just a little bit. “No.”

“But one day, someone will?” She felt breathless, aching to lean a bit closer.

“Eventually,” said he. “That is the nature of being the Vasaath. One day, someone strong enough to defeat me will come along and take my place.”

“It sounds so… harsh,” she said, fighting the urge to eye his bulging arms. The wine had surely made her more comfortable, but she knew she would be most comfortable leaned against his rigorous build.

“Well, no one ever said being the Vasaath was easy.”

“No.” She thought about what Kasethen had told her, about the general’s loneliness, and she lowered her eyes. She was not of the Kasenon—she could indulge him, if only he would want her.

Translation:

Saath – military; army; strength; protection