Some of you know me and my story of how I came to Gor, but I've kept the details of how and why a secret. And that's exactly what I want to tell you about today. No, it won't be a colorful, cheerful tale.
But I hope that afterward you'll understand me better, why I am the way I am.
I was born on Earth in the year of our Lord 1678 in Scotland. The Highlands. The land of endless expanses of green hills. The land of magic. Of goblins, trolls, a land full of myths and legends.
But also a land that has long been at war with other countries. Starting with Rome, who were defeated by the Picts. My ancestral people, and a people I will return to in my story.
But the conflict continued later in history, with Scotland against England. A land soaked in blood.
Proud clans, men who rebelled against other powers and paid dearly for it.
It is my home, my land. My refuge. It makes me proud to belong to them.
My family were among the common people. We ran a farm. I wasn't an only child, though; there was my older brother, Kilian. He managed the farm as the eldest of us, since we never knew our father. Life was hard, but it gave us what we needed. My childhood memories are still very vivid: wide open spaces and green hills.
We belonged to a group of people destined to protect the king from a powerful enemy. Every boy with a very special bloodline was promised to the king's war camp as a baby, and so were my brother and I. Our existence had only one purpose. The rules stipulated that at the age of 21, each of these young men was sent to one of the war camps. There was no "no." We were raised to believe that this was the path we had to take. Were we worth anything? Did we count for anything? No, until we completed our training at the war camp, we were insignificant.
My brother left the farm five years before I did. Until then, I had hoped it wouldn't happen. But it did, and my mother and I were left behind. Now it was up to me to manage the farm. I had just turned 15, and yes, I was quite the handful. Suddenly, I was burdened with such responsibility, suddenly forced to grow up. The work became even harder, but I persevered. In the back of my mind, though, was the hope of hearing something from my brother, of getting a sign of life from him. But nothing ever came, not a single word.
Could it be true? Could the rumor be true? That the men would never return to their families? But I didn't understand. At some point, they had completed their education and were free to move about as they pleased... right?
So the years passed, and my hope died with each year of waiting.
But the pressure inside me grew, the feeling that my time would soon come, that I would have to leave the farm and my mother. But also the unwillingness to submit to the system. They had taken my brother from me, because I had given up hope, and all that remained was a blind rage.
And so, the day before my 21st birthday, I received precise instructions about when and where I was to report. There were rumors about these camps, of which there were quite a few. But none of these rumors had anything to do with reality. It quickly became clear to all of us: Only the best would get out of here alive. The king was to receive only the best warriors. Men who could not be broken. Men who would endure pain and who would walk to their deaths without a word. Men who knew that their lives belonged to the king and the people.
And so it happened. My camp was that of the Bloodletter. His reputation preceded him. Only the best came from there, but out of 100 men, barely 20-30 survived. The camp was an arena; there were no huts, only shelters where our sleeping quarters were. These shelters enclosed the fighting area. We should always keep in mind what we were. We were dirt, unworthy. And so we lived in filth. Always with the battles and humiliations before our eyes, these constant fights, the punishments of the losers. Humiliations that spared no one, and so we learned right from the start what would happen to us if we lost.
A duel raged in the middle of the arena. The fight was fierce, the weapons thankfully made of wood. It went on like this, sometimes one was ahead, sometimes the other. Blood covered the sweat-drenched bodies and the arena floor. In total, the fight lasted about 15 minutes, and in the end, a young blond man lost. He was still one of the new recruits, which was evident from his hesitant movements. He was also rather slight in build. The other was an experienced fighter, his...The movements were balanced, fluid; beneath the skin, the muscles were visible, flexing.
But there was something about the fighters that I couldn't quite grasp. It was training, yet they fought as if their lives depended on it. Eventually, the blond man lost and was thrown against a pillar, where he lay motionless. At first, he didn't move. He didn't stir. It had been a hard impact. Then, one of the bystanders entered the arena; judging by his demeanor, he was someone in charge.
He leaned over the blond man, grabbed him by the neck, and threw him at the victor's feet. Not a word was spoken; their glances and gestures spoke volumes. The victor remained motionless, unmoving. The moment, the atmosphere, seemed to grip everyone in turn, paralyzing them. We were tense, and a whirlwind of emotions raged within me. What was happening? My gaze was fixed on the blond man, who was now conscious but didn't move; rather, his whole body trembled.
Time seemed to stand still until the man in charge picked up a whip and began to beat the victor. He crumpled and knelt. His back was a gaping wound, blood running down his sides. But what disturbed me most was that not a word escaped the tormented man's lips. He had been raised this way, right here in the arena. That much became clear to me all at once. My gaze fell behind me to the large gate, which was now locked. I pushed aside the thought of leaving, for others had already had that idea; they ran to the gate but were met with a harsh reception.
........ When I turned back to the arena, the blond man had been seized and tied to a post. The victor stood before him, a riding crop in his hand, and began to beat him with it until he hung screaming from the ropes. But the punishment wasn't over yet; no, what happened next became etched in my memory, shaping my behavior then and forever. I could never forget, nor would I ever forget, those screams that escaped his throat. The weeping, the pleading. The horror. These images haunted my dreams for a long time. He was humiliated in the arena by the victor in an unimaginably cruel way. He was abused. I didn't understand it, and I didn't want to. "That happens to everyone who loses, until you have only one goal left: to win!" I looked at the man next to me; he was one of those who had been there longer, I could tell.
The Commander was a sadist. He took pleasure in picking on each individual, one by one, and trying to break them. To explore their weaknesses. He pitted every novice against an experienced opponent, so the chance of winning remained very slim. That was the order of the day, that defined our lives. This constant pressure to prove we were worth more than the dirt we slept on.
But it wasn't just the fighting that wore us down, it was everything. The nights, the cold that got to everyone. Then winter began. Snow spread, like a white blanket covering everything. Until then, I didn't know what it meant to freeze. But that winter, I learned. The dwellings were just shelters. Like open barns. And we were the livestock. All just to show us who we were, where we stood, and also to build our strength. Whoever was too weak was eliminated.
Has anyone ever tried to light a fire with ice-cold fingers? A simple fire? Just to keep warm so their toes wouldn't freeze? Necessity forced us to huddle close together. And that's how our bonds grew. Deep friendships were forged. But it was all the more horrific to hurt my friend. To watch him being tortured. It was all a ploy to drill us, to extract every last emotion from each of us, until nothing remained but an icy coldness within. We were supposed to learn to be attached to nothing and no one, only to serve, to obey. Even to stubbornly endure torture.
My hatred for the Commander and his subordinates grew day by day. Week by week, month by month. It was eating me up inside.
I did well in the arena, why? Well, my brother had always pushed me in my free time to fight with him, to defend the farm with whatever we had, and any means were justified. But there was more to it than that. Did he already know back then what awaited us? Now I'm quite certain he did.
In any case, this served me very well in the arena, helping me maintain my will. And as I mentioned before, I didn't intend to lose, nor did I intend to punish the loser. So, against
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DARIAN-EDITOR
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