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“Asli.”

A small, delicate hand waved through the trickling water of the creek that flowed and craved its own way through the forest, and parted the coverage of the leaves that shaded the two from the morning sun. Her hand twirled around in the clarity of it, the cold little droplets fell upon and quickly left from the girl's hand as she watched the ways it changed the light that shone upon it, how its movement changed the way it reflected, how it danced differently than simply an even flow. She had sat here for minutes, watching as it changed, yet with a slight weight that seemed to bear upon her shoulders.

“Hm?” Asli’s neck turned with a glance, sweat beaded off his forehead with the flick as he faced his sister, crouched down by the water. It was a quaint spot, a small reprieve, what both deemed as an escape from the burdens that stalked them in their waking hour, a small oasis where little pressure existed. One where usually a sister curled up beneath the shade of spruce and a brother struck the bark off one only a few paces over with one of the few things he had left from his birthland.

The sword in his hand fell to his side as he heaved, his breath heavy and low, the energy burned from him, likened to a candle melted down to its last bit of wax. “Oh? Finally speaking today, sister? I was scared you were too lost in that head of yours. Regale me, dear Hace, what is the matter?” A small smile fell upon his lips as he sheathed the sword at his waist.

“Why must you go?” Hace spoke, swiping a black curl from her eyes as her head shifted away from the flowing creek. There had been very few days where the two hadn’t been joined at the hip, yet it seemed as the days passed in but a blink and the year ran past them, these fleeting moments of peace in the woods grew less and less in frequency. And while she was always a girl of few words, she always wore a face that could say more than any syllable that came from her lips. Such was one who wore dejection, with eyes that peered toward his but didn’t hold it, and a mouth sat with lips that had entered into a slight frown, different from the bright smile she had always held.

“Why must I go? The same reason Mahzon stayed; I can’t lie in wait forever. I can’t stay here upon these lands and live off the spoils of the Baron ‘til I am decrepit.” Asli closed the distance between the two, placing himself upon a felled log that sat only mere feet away from where she was crouched. Asli’s eye fell down to his hand, tracing the thin band of gold inlaid with silver and a crimson-stained jewel in the center piece, the same on that his sister wore. It was a little memento of their brother, of the dynasty that now spilled their own kin's blood. “I guess I need to make something of myself. Something more than the boy walks in the shadow of the guards on patrol.”

“I suppose it is a better arrangement.”Hace stood as she spoke, patting the bottom of her skirt of the dirt she had tracked onto it when she stood. Soon, the spot beside her brother was filled, and her hands were sunk into her brother's satchel to retrieve the journal nestled within.

“Besides, I shan’t be gone forever. So don’t frown, Hace.” With a turn and cock of the head he flashed that same grin that in years past had been an infectious one to ignite her own.

“That’s the same thing Mahzon said.” Little had changed in the girl's face; the corner of her lips sank only lower as she stared out upon the creek aimlessly, almost looking through it as if she could see through the earth. A silence was born in the wake of her words. As if they were under the current of water, both held their breaths, their tongues tied with little clue of what to even mutter next. They sat like the air itself was solid, and they could do little to cut through it. Asli's mouth moved, opened, and closed as he fought to even find the words.

“Just take care of mother for me, won’t you?”

“He said that, too, Asli. He said that, too.”

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Quiet. There was little of it to be found at the academy. Throughout this meager time within these walls of limestone and brick, there was but an absence of it, along every turn, from his lonely trip through the gates and orientation to the journey led by the quite wordy woman whose name he had lost through the stream of sounds that flowed from her lips with little reprieve. ‘Tis but a type of noise he had almost forgot, such was one brought forth by the will of man and their pomp and regality. Little of such was found in the Osterland, among the rolling hills where cattle fed and man marched, was a staunch silence that pervaded the fields, where but it was only broken by the rustling of wind ‘neath the pale blue sky and the trickling of water that was hidden within the forests that dotted the map. Yet, within this room of worn wooden furniture, sterile as he had been the first of the duo to be living in such quarters, there was that silence. Where he felt he could hear his own breathing, where there were no eyes, no other ears, simply only him and the small buzz of activity from beyond the room.

Asli basked in the sweet embrace of the quiet for but only a second, heaving the baggage that had turned his knuckles white onto the desk. Yet he was not the only one who would be dwelling in such an abode; beyond the door, stationed above it, was a placard that read but two names: his own and one of another. Roelo de Barbroeck was the name he had seen, and it was not one he could truthfully say he knew. The surname, however, rang the slightest of bells in his memory. It was ducal in nature, with enough prominence, he surmised, to even trickle down into the knowledge of the nephew of a lowly baron, who had absconded from his birth country to that of his mothers. And although a third of his life within this plane had been spent in the empire, the fineries of its politics were lost on him, yet still the tales of prince-electors in both the dark realm of intrigue and upon the field of battle were still heralded to him by his mother. And while his people, such tales of them had seemed so utterly foreign, so far and distant from what he had lived before upon these lands. Now he knew it was all the same. Rather than brothers who held the title of prince taking the other's lives in the haram, they held titles such as duke, or count, or whatever regal name they hold themself to under the broader position of prince-elector who slaughtered each other in the realm of public opinion during a Kur; a different system, but losses are still counted, and despot is still made. He could only ponder on how the boy would present, how deeply he would hold to the name that stood as more than simply himself, how much of it he would make a defining trait of his character. Asli once knew many men who clung to the prestige of their name, the grandeur that encompassed it, many of whom he held the displeasure of calling his brothers, yet all of whom he knew of as naught but pompous pretenders. And by God, he hoped his bunkmate was not one of these men.

His hands flicked tarnished iron clasps that held the case shut as he opened one of the only two bags he brought along. Since the move, he had rarely kept many effects in his possession; the fact that most of his items that stood in his room at Grünestal stood as a testament to such. From first glance, it was plain by nature, but only what could be seen was his assortment of clothes, shirts, and breeches of browns, whites, navys, and blacks laid stacked upon each other. Gone were his days wrapped in a kaftan of dark greens and reds with a kuşak upon his waist. Now he stood in full Ansbourg parade dress, which a shako on his head, where in other lands could sit a fez, which he soon placed beside his luggage on the table.

Asli soon moved to packing away clothes that covered the rest of the items he owned. It was not much to see: a small assortment of closed boxes, pages of letters he had yet to read from his family, one each from his mother and his sister, and the many people he had come to forge friendships with in the barony, yet still none from his brother. It was a letter he had long lost hope of receiving, and that if any of his own letters made it across the sea, there was but a slim chance there was even anyone was receiving them but the old staff who likely tossed it. His tan hand fondled with the edges of the letters, bound in a twine his mother wrapped upon it, and surprised him with the day before he had set off for the heartlands. Asli didn’t know if he could read them yet, didn’t know if he was ready to face the words of more people he had left behind yet again. He ruffled the top of the letters once more, almost 10 in count. The one he averted his gaze from the most was the only one written in a script different from that of the others, written in a tongue he hadn’t spoken, read, seen, or even thought since years long passed. With the quick pull open of a drawer and grasp of the letters within his hand, Asli quickly dropped them within. Such was reading for another day.

With that, he removed the last effects from the bottom of the luggage, closing it back and placing it up against the wall beside his desk. It was little that stood before him now, only a few unmarked black casings and small bags of trinkets, yet these were the few that never left his side. Beads of rich browns carved of dead desert trees that ended in a small jewel wrapped in silver fell upon his hand as Asli emptied the little bag. Alongside it sat what appeared to be a gilded book encased in iron with a glass on its front. It had been quite a bit since he last prayed. The trip to the academy from Osterland was a long one, traveling without reprieve until they touched down within the city limits, simply for him to be thrust into a ceremony that flashed past in him a blur. Hell, even before his arrival, most days it had been hard to keep a schedule without court [abbr=Karahanlılar word for a priest like figure]Sözadam[/abbr] constant hustling. Yet, it was one of the many things he missed. He missed the great grandeur of the temples lined words of scripture and whose windows bore colors of reds, blues, greens, and yellows. He missed the feast brought before them every prayer in reverence of Alparslan and his nine faris. Laachtalian lacked it all but in its stead they stood before stones laden in ornaments, painted and prim, that told stories of the dead, not beatified. It was different, strange, a custom he was only able to grasp the fringes of. No matter. He had abandoned the ways of his birth quite yet. 

Asli’s hands gripped the prayer beads between his fingers, his hands open in a cusp, as the small book sat in the middle. He didn’t need to read it, he didn’t need to search its pages for the verse he desired; he knew exactly what he desired to pray on. So in this small piece of quiet, away from it all, from his home, from his mother, his sister, his brother, he embraced in this short little time he was afforded.

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