Truth in Punishment
By: PointyEdgesofaSign
A/N: I own nothing. Done to sedate Vachir and his wish that the truth be told. I did not write this, I merely was the conduit for his words. Review if you think he should continue, and please say more than just 'yes' or 'no'.
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Where to start?
They say the beginning is a good place, I wouldn't know, I've never written more than basic reports. I don't like reports, there's no soul in them. I like writing with a soul. I also like people with souls, those who aren't what they appear, who are, in and of themselves, conundrums that, at first glance, would seem impossible to solve.
In retrospect, that's probably why I fell for him.
But I digress; I'll start at the beginning.
I don't remember much of my early days. My name is one that was lost to time, and I may never recover it, though I do not grieve. I was a simple child from a simple family who could only afford the price of books that were borrowed, never owned. Did that stop me? Never. I learned and I read and as I read more, I learned more, spoke less, listened to how people spoke to deceive themselves of the truth, and grew to understand that we all need someone to blame.
I didn't want to be like them, blaming everything on everyone without due trial or fairness. I wanted to protect that right to honesty. I wanted to be a politician as they should be, not are.
I had heard, from book to book, of certain arts that were made to do just that, protecting the weak from the powerful, and made my decision to run away and learn them. It was, I do not deny, my own rashness that left me half starved and broken hearted in the snowy mountains of Mongolia, dying even as my eyes closed.
When I opened them, it was warm. I did not and do not know how he found me, but he did, and I lived.
When the initial shock that I was still alive wore off, I began asking questions of my savior, who, at the time, I did not recognize. He answered them diligently and honestly, and I decided I liked him, for he seemed a man with little to hide. Men with little to hide were men who could be trusted.
When he asked me why I had left home, I told him it was to look for a teacher of truth. He smiled at me, an all-knowing smile that seemed to permeate my small, tired form with unforgettable joy, and replied that he would teach me.
"Little Vachir," he spoke, renaming me as a cattle herder. "I will teach you truth, for you are ready to learn it."
"And who are you?" I asked, curiosity my second nature.
"I," he replied, smile unfaltering even in the dim lighting of the temple. "am Master Flying Rhino."