Remembering the Past

It’s been seven years, and Shalvesta is sitting in a tavern in Jauhar, a mug of ale cradled in her hands, wondering where all the time has gone. It’s nothing she hasn’t seen before, someone huddled, half-drunk and bemoaning the state of one's life, and yet to Shalvesta it feels infinitely more tragic. Once, there had been a reason to her wondering, some goal that drove her, but it had fallen away into a sea of indifference. She was no soldier… not really, and yet the ideals had touched her in ways that she couldn’t quite explain. A brotherhood that she didn’t quite fit into had kept her swaddled, safe and content, in ways she had never experienced - and then it all fell apart, after the war. The soldiers returned home, morale crushed, shrunken under memories of wartime deeds - deeds that had a purpose, once, but not anymore.

Politics stepped in, and the unity of a common foe that kept them all together shattered. Now, it was loyalist versus reformist, and the brotherhood shattered apart. The camps in Jauhar where Shalvesta had learned the skills of a swordsman had packed up and moved along, and if she had known what was good for her she would have returned home with them. For all she knew, home would have been better… Mash’al may not be dead, as she had hoped, but he was gone. And yet, if she returned, she may be pressured to marry her husband’s younger brother, Tyjah, but equally she may be dismissed and told to return home, to her parents in Orrod. Mash’al had discovered that her father had lied, and even if Liesheth, her mother-in-law, still bought the flimsy ‘paragon’ nonsense, Tyjah was old enough now to refuse such an arrangement, even if his mother arranged it.

Although she and Mash’al had been married, there was no proof that they had consummated it, as she had not taken with child, and as such she could be refused as a widow if she cared to call for such rights… and with how pro-war the family had been, surely they were ruined. Why would she ever need, or want, to return to that place?

She wasn’t running from it… not really. And yet, even now, she flinched when nobility looked at her too closely, and a small, wailing part deep inside her feared she would be taken home, kicking and screaming. In the months after the war’s end, Shalvesta couldn’t suffer the risk, and she had fled north to Jauhar. Which was funny… as a loyalist, she had never imagined peace with the heathens to the north. She had little desire to torture or maim, and she knew that many matori were mistreated under the current regime, and yet her people were their betters in every way. They had better technology, were cleaner and more civilized - and yet they’d lost. She would be lying if she said she’d helped much, in those first few months. Tensions were still high… and she especially remembered fighting with a young, upstart shifter - and feeling pride and a reaffirmation of her peoples’ skills with the victory. And then… she met another shifter. A girl who had taken her in, gave her food, repaired her sword - with skill that Shalvesta hadn’t imagined her people had.

Maybe peace was possible? She spent two years in Jauhar, flitting between the border into Tale only briefly. Ideally, she wanted to speak with the Alkidike, see if there was any possibility that Mash’al lived among them. But it was easier, honestly, to protect the caravans of Oban traders that moved through the region, staying among her own, observing - staying in Shifter towns, but not living anywhere. It was good money… and a good opportunity to learn more about the stranger northerners.

When war broke out, Shalvesta had been certain that the aggressors would be her own. Loyalists, unhappy with the liberal leanings of the king, the freeing of the Matori slaves… but it wasn’t. It was the Alkidike.

She never would have thought that the many races would band together… would all agree to go to Sauti, and defend a foreign land. Two years before, the Obans had been repelled… surely, Shalvesta thought, anxiously, their people would take this as an opportunity. The main forces had traveled north, along the great mountainous wall between Matori and Sauti, just as the Alkidike moved east. It was the perfect chance for Oba’s remaining forces to sweep north into the weakened lands of Jauhar. So she had remained… she didn’t participate in the battle. Instead, she hovered at the border, watchful, expecting the invasion… but unsure of what she would do when it came. Would she try and defend this new land? It wasn’t her home, but she had made a life here nonetheless. Or would she join in the invasion? Luckily, the invasion never came. The Alkidike were suppressed, and weeks later news swept through the land that the newly formed Alliance had held. Downing a long pull of her ale, Shalvesta slammed the mug down and stared into the rippling amber, pursing her lips thoughtfully at the strange woman who stared back. Seven years ago, during the fight with that shifter boy, she’d changed - a change she’d finally embraced two years later, when she returned home to Oba. She hadn’t wanted the war to end, deep in her bones. She’d wanted the fighting, the chaos, the sense of unity and brotherhood - maybe it was the adrenaline or maybe it was the part of herself that wanted to have the power, for once. The feeling of control.

But despite those feelings, beyond the lizard brain that called for a fight and for blood, Shalvesta the woman wanted this peace to last. How could she wish for war, when the alliance had succeeded - when the Matori slaves were free, when she was able to do whatever she wanted? The longing for a good fight, at least, was sated by her current lifestyle as a mercenary wench. Her life may be a mess, but at least, in this, she was content.