by Alex Rey
“Now Molar,” Carpla began, creeping up from behind, “you must drink from the Iofinad.”
Darn it! his son silently swore, a barely-noticeable cringe forming in his shoulders. Trying to hide his disappointment, he turned his gaze over on Carpla when he asked, “But why?”
“Drinking from this giant cup gives us many blessings, Molar. Now drink from it. You are the first to drink from it as a guest of honor.”
A moment of hesitation befell Molar before he nervously turned back to the Iofinad. Here I go, he nervously thought, tipping his head down toward the red liquid. As a series of waves spread through the Iofinad, he dipped his beak into its viscous interior and took a sip. To his surprise, however, the liquid did not taste as bad as he thought—in fact he rather enjoyed its sensation in his beak.
With a quick pull did he remove his beak from the liquid’s essence. Wiping the rest of the red from his beak, he stepped aside and allowed the next person to take a drink
If there were ever a slave who had drunk from the cup, its liquid would gradually remove all of their organs—except for their bones. It was a very painful process, but it made the slaves live for all eternity as a Mocranian citizen.
In Mocrano, such a tradition was called Mes’xo. It only happened whenever a new Mocranian leader arose. It wasn’t just done because of the emperor’s grandson learning how to fly, but also for his birth and for the virtuous future he was expected to lead.
Chapter V
The Imperial Slaves
Molar rested well that night, though the excitement from flying still tickled his thoughts. His excitement kept him awake until millions of heartbeats since his father had been asleep came to pass.
Apart from the excitement he received from flying, Molar was also looking forward to learning about the Mocranian slaves. The next day would be the day when Carpla would take him to eastern Mocrano: the busiest section of the whole empire.
There were many times when Molar had asked his father why the slaves were treated so cruelly. Yes, he had treated them cruelly himself—but that was only because everybody else did. The response he was most likely to receive was one which claimed the slaves to have disgusting bodily functions. It was an accusation Molar could understand well, but he didn’t see how that could cause all the fuss.
Letting his thoughts run freely through his mind created a very peaceful night for him. He woke up in the early morning the next day, not a shred of tiredness showing anywhere on his bones. His anxiety caused him to rush from his room and down to the bottom floor to his father’s castle in an instant.
Slowing down slightly, Molar made his way into the castle’s kitchen—where he took notice of nothing but a glass cup sitting on the dining table. A confused expression crossing his face, he slowly walked up to the table, realizing the cup held a strange, clear liquid.
“Hello, Molar,” came a voice from behind—sending a shock to travel down Molar’s spine. His entire body jerked as he spun around to take sight of Carpla leaning against one of the room’s rocky walls.
Once a wave of relaxation swept over Molar’s body, he heard Carpla command, “Have a drink.”
Switching glances between his father to the glass of clear liquid, Molar created a pause of silence. After a few moments of examining the glass, Molar interrupted the silence by telling Carpla, “Thank you.”
No words were spoken by Carpla as here merely continued to lean against the wall. Slowly turning his head over to the glass, Molar silently asked himself why his father was acting somewhat strangely.
At first, Molar thought this liquid would prove to be a delectable beverage. Carefully, he placed his beak into the cup and began to suck its liquid into his system. Upon emptying almost half of the glass of its innards, a rather fowl taste splashed into his beak.
He turned his head toward Carpla, almost spitting the liquid out. As if reading his thoughts, Carpla quickly shook his head, causing Molar even more drama. He wants me to finish it, Molar realized. Why? Without another moment of hesitation, he returned his beak back into the beaker.
Although it had taken a few seconds longer than necessary, Molar found himself slowly gulping the liquid into his bones. He gave a great shudder of his whole body just before pulling himself away and asking his father, “What was that?”
Pushing himself away from the wall, Carpla chuckled in response, “What you just drank was a liquid that is just as important to the slaves as malid is to us. It’s called water.”
“Why’d you make me drink it?” Molar asked with a hint of anger spreading in his voice.
“We don’t really need it here,” Carpla continued, as if he hadn’t heard his son’s question. “With the exception of the slaves, we don’t need to drink water. However, what it does to us Mocranians is cool off our bones—rather than adding moisture to them.”
“How is that going to help us?”
Taking a nervous glance at his son, Carpla changed the subject when he told him, “Anyway—now that you’re full of energy, you should get yourself prepared to see the slaves.”
Another moment of hesitation came between the father and son before Molar replied in a cheerful voice, “Okay!” It was almost as if he had forgotten about the fowl-tasting liquid he had just drunk. I can’t wait! he exclaimed.
After a quick pause of silence, Molar took a rush over to the castle’s front doors as he swiftly made his way outside. Upon meeting up with the outside world, he came to find himself in the midst of his father’s garden once again. Nearly bumping his way into one of his father’s precious plants, he quickly stopped himself from causing any damage.
Pulling his beak away from the plants’ leaves, Molar turned his head over his shoulder upon hearing the sound of Carpla’s shoes clacking against the ground. As excitement swelled his head, Molar nervously asked his father, “Are we going to see the slaves now?” despite everything Carpla had told him earlier.
With a nod, Carpla replied through a minute voice, “We’re going to see the slaves, their owners, and learn how they live.” He took notice of his son nearly giving a hop of excitement as they both exited the castle’s walls.
Molar’s large paws shuffled uneasily as he walked beside his father. He found it unfair how he had been born with wings, but not his father. An idea formed in his head—the idea of carrying Carpla by his robes as he took hold of them while they flew—but he was too embarrassed to ask such a question. If only he had known about Carpla’s ability to hover—
A look of listlessness showing all over his body, Molar still continued to follow his father with stiffened legs. His gaze took notice of only his dusty paws as they left peculiar-shaped prints in the sand. His beak pointed its way toward the ground, almost dragging across the sand as the two came within barely any distance between each other.
Molar’s head shot up when he heard an angry, masculine growl split the air. His neck gave a great jerk upwards as he and his father froze in place. Only one thought spread into each of their minds: What was that?
Turning his gaze toward his father, Molar witnessed Carpla’s shoulders give a stressful tense. Exchanging glances, he assured his son, “It’s probably a slave owner.”
A pause of silence filled their heads until Molar gave a quick nod of assurance. He took sight of Carpla heading off into the east, but made no attempt to move his paws. As if he hadn’t even existed, Carpla left Molar standing where he was to be alone with his thoughts.
Through the short time he had stood in that one place, a swarm of questions buzzed through his mind. Why was the slave owner screaming? Was he overreacting to his slaves’ mistake? And even then, was the mistake even that big of a deal?
Switching his gaze from the ground to his father, Molar called out to him, “Hey—wait for me!” A rush sprang beneath his four paws as he caught up to Carpla.
Upon taking sensation of his father’s robe brushing against his ribs, Molar slowed his pace and gave himself time to listen to the sound of slave owners’ vo
ices. Mixed in with their voices were the sounds of groaning and a small amount of screaming. To add to sounds, Molar could take sight of a small, wooden sign with the picture of a slightly large, white bird painted on its surface.
This must be it, he told himself silently. Although excitement still surged through him, it was beginning to dim as nervousness started replacing it. He pressed himself up against his father, hoping Carpla could protect him from the violence surrounding them.
Molar and Carpla noticed the slaves digging up the important Mocranian construction materials. They used nothing but pickaxes to mine the metals out—the likes of which were mainly limestone and granite.
As his sight locked onto a frail, anonymous human slave, Molar heard himself being lectured by his father. “This place that we’re in is called a yavia,” Carpla explained through a murmur. “When your grandfather first discovered there were holes in our ground, his first idea was to fill them up with dirt. But later he came up with a better idea.”
Lifting his dusty hand, Carpla pointed in the same direction in which Molar was looking. “That rock that the slave over there is mining was formed by one of the holes.” Confused, Molar removed his gaze from the slave to take a look up at his father.
Understanding his confusion, Carpla explained, “The main reason why your grandfather wanted to get rid of these holes was because they were squirting out a very hot, orange substance called lava. But later he discovered that when the lava cooled, the air surrounding it caused them to turn into either granite or limestone rock.”
Turning his gaze away from Molar’s side, he continued. “At first, he thought that this rock would just keep piling up until there was barely any space left here. It was only a few days after discovering them that he found out that these rocks could be mined to build homes and towers. That’s why yaviai are usually filled with slaves. You’re going to fi—”
Before Carpla could speak another word, however, he was interrupted by the sound of his son’s screams. Taking a quick look over his shoulder, he took notice of a bludgeoned and bloodied female human slave seeping her fingers around the edges of Molar’s eye sockets.
The slave took a look into Carpla’s hood and gave a great hiss, revealing two rows of blood-stained teeth. One of her arms wrapped its way around Molar’s neck, giving him very little space to move.
Molar made an attempt to snip his beak through the slave’s skin—but the way she was holding him prevented him from doing so. Pulling back from Carpla, the slave screeched, “Let me go and I’ll let your—” Miraculously for Molar, the slave gave a surprised gasp as her grip on his neck began to loosen.
Feeling a pressure press up against the back of his head, Molar quickly trotted away from the slave. Turning himself around, he witnessed how the fire—once burning in her eyes—had extinguished into ash. The slave came down on her knees, a moisture forming just below her left eye while she summoned a much redder liquid from her mouth.
A pang of remorse pierced through Molar’s skull as he took sight of the human slave’s chest crash onto the gray sand below her. As she lay on the ground, Molar discovered a javelin had been launched into her spine.
Molar watched as the human’s blood held a striking resemblance to the liquid he had drunk the day before. It trickled from her spine, streaming down through her arm until it came to a near stop at one of her hands. Once at the tip of her finger, the red liquid began to drip onto the sand below her.
Slowly crawling up to the deceased slave, Molar took a close look at the blood when a heavily armed soldier ripped his javelin from the slave’s skin and commanded to him, “Carry on.” Molar was almost surprised to see the javelin’s tip covered in the blood as it drew its way from the deceased slave’s body.
Shuddering in disgust, Molar followed his father as they both walked away from the remains of what was once a slave. He pressed up even closer by Carpla’s side than before, the fear of another slave attack even greater than before.
He was very surprised that none of the other slaves took so much as a single glance at their dead friend. Do they even care? Curious, Molar shook the fear from his head when he asked Carpla, “Why did that slave attack me?”
Hesitating, Carpla’s pace came to a pause—as did Molar’s. He slowly drew his gaze down to the skeletal figure he knew as his son. His head bending down almost all the way into a ninety degree angle, he replied, “That’s what slaves do. For as long as I can remember, almost all of them have attacked Mocranians for countless reasons.”
“Like what?” asked Molar, moving in front of Carpla.
“Well,” Carpla began, “they have often claimed to hate our society many times before. Because they hated our society, we had them work for us.”
“How long have there been slaves?” wondered Molar, bringing a slight change to the subject.
“They were around before even I was born. I’ve heard a bunch of stories about when they would try to rebel over us, but we would always win in the end.”
Asking no more questions, Molar took a look down at his paws as he began to walk beside his father once again. He was lost in his own thoughts, ignoring the harsh sounds sounding outside his skull’s barriers.
So they should be enslaved because they were rebels, Molar told himself silently. He pondered on this thought for a long time, soon wondering whether or not it was really all of the slaves that had joined in the rebellion—or if it was just a select few. If so was the case, than only those who had rebelled should have at least been put in a prison—rather than the whole slave race.
“Father,” Molar began after a long pause of silence. “Did all of the slaves rebel against us?”
“Yes.”
“Every single one of them?”
Once again stopping in his tracks, Carpla snapped, “Yes! Every single one of them!” Noticing his son taking a tiny step backward, he gave a quick crouch on his knees as he clutched Molar by one of his ribs.
Molar almost shook when he felt his father’s dusty hand clutch onto his rib. Stammering, he wished to cower away from his problems when he explained, “It just doesn’t seem fair that all of them should have been enslaved when only some of them rebelled.”
“I just told you that all of them rebelled against us!”
“But don’t you think that we—exaggerated?” Half-expecting Carpla to snap once again, Molar waited for his father to make a response. When no words passed from behind his hood, Molar continued, “Well—maybe some of them don’t deserve it.”
“Don’t you ever say they don’t deserve it!” Carpla shrieked. Squeezing Molar’s rib, Carpla pulled him off of the ground. In response to having none of his body touching the ground without his intention, Molar commanded through a series of panics, “Stop! Let me down!”
His fingers still clutching around Molar’s rib, Carpla raised his own son over his head just before releasing his grasp. For a second, Molar could feel himself floating through the air as his screams sounded throughout the yavia.
It was only an instant of time he spent enjoying the cool breeze brought upon him when he felt a sharp limestone run into his spine. Filling his head all the while was the sound of his cloak’s fabric tearing apart.
Once he felt this rock scratching through his bone, the only sound Molar could take hearing of now were his own cries of agony. He was too giddy to take notice of the nearby slaves chronically mining the limestone rocks without speaking a single word.
With very little strength flowing through his bones, Molar brought his cries to a stop and slowly picked himself up on his paws. He took a quick, angry look up at his father—who continued to hold a laconic gesture toward him. A growl escaped from his beak when he muttered, “Just what is wrong with you?”
Frightened yet infuriated, Molar stood his ground as his father’s shadow enveloped him in darkness. Just when he had expected Carpla to throw him against another rock, Molar heard his father beckon, “Come on—we’re leaving.”
Already? Even
with this thought in mind, he released a small sigh of relief and Molar followed his father, his beak almost coming in contact with Carpla’s heels as they both exited the yavia. Walking without letting any cries of agony escape from his beak quickly became a struggle. Over and over again did he have to remind himself, Don’t scream—don’t scream.
Through the trip back home, Molar begged himself not to turn his gaze toward the busy slaves. A great fear within him warned him doing so might cause the slaves to hurt him again. The last thing he wanted was to have his already-injured spine split into two pieces.
He continued to walk, unable to do anything else except for staring down at his own lion-like paws. Every passing heartbeat caused Molar’s pace to slow down without his intention. As a result, he was forced to give his pace a quick boost every once in a while.
The one and only thing Molar wanted to do at this point was at least receive the chance to talk to his father. It seemed the only way to make him understand that he was sorry. But he would never listen to me after that. And besides—would he even forgive me?
Apologizing was something Molar did not like doing. It seemed—in his mind—the affect from apologizing would be the exact opposite of what most people would expect. Ironically—in the case where he had made a large mistake—the person Molar had apologized to would often snap at him, making him feel even more ashamed of himself. What was the point of apologizing if it had hardly ever worked in situations like this?
Once their castle was in sight, Carpla quickened his pace without warning. Taking his mind off the thought of apologies, Molar yelled silently, Wait for me!
Molar began to flap his wings in an attempt at flight, feeling a breeze released from his wings. Just when the breeze began to flutter through his torn cloak, Molar sensed a jolt of pain spring through his spine. Upon taking sensation of such a painful notion, he hastily dropped back down to the ground.