It's perfect.

It's a seed planted in your mind the day you're born. It's watered by words of the anthem that you sing every year at the festival; the song of Domunus. The words confirm that Domunus is ultimate and will soon rule the world. And by that logic, the trolls were intruding on the lands that rightfully belonged to you.

Domunus's high-class, the white-skinned elite - which you and your family were part of - were the best, the dark-skinned servants were second, and the trolls were the worst. Why would it be any differently; after all, the white-skinned had always been in power. If this wasn't the design of the heavens, why would it exist this way?

So you took your birthright with pride; the skin color that marked you as the best. Small hands held a big hymn book in the church every festival, and you sing along to the anthem of the nation. You sing along as well to the hymns of the gods and goddesses in the stars; the entities who granted you your birthright of being ultimate. You would stand between your parents and lift your voice to the wooden rafters as colored light splashed on the floor from the stain-glass windows, the smell of incense smoke filling your clothes, following you home the night after the festival.

The festivals stopped when the battles turned to war. It was several years before you returned to the church, and there was no singing that day. Just mourning families and a row of coffins at the front of the church, and the preacher reading from the holy book. He spoke of the glory and honor these men died with, serving their nation. He said they would doubtlessly find favor with the gods and walk among them in the heavens.

The church bell tolled once for every man, and on the third toll, your mother's hand tightens on yours.

The third coffin in the row was your father's.

It's not long after that your mother's coffin is being lowered into the ground as well. You throw in a handful of dirt with the hand not holding the baby.

Your mother died in the favor of the gods as well. She died giving birth to the boy who shared a father with you; left in the world a reminder of him, as well as of her. The blond child had his hair and her smile, and you to protect him.

It was shortly after Dave was born that you began to train trolls. Get back at those who had first broken your family.

And it was perfect.

Dave grew healthy and strong, and you taught him as your father had taught you. One night, you took him into the yard after the sun had set and pointed out the shapes in the stars of the gods who lived among the heavens; standing vigil and watching over the Earth.

You told him how your mother and father lived there, among the gods, and they watch you from the skies. He stares skyward, red eyes huge, shades abandoned in the dim night.

You teach him of the birthright given to you by the gods of the stars; how the servants are second, and how the trolls are the WORST. He listens as he does with the stars, and something feels good about it. Teaching him everything you'd learned of your father; echoing a voice of the past. Teaching him the truth.

He stares at you with reverence, and you feel pride. Like you're his father. It feels like a full family; it feels right.

That seems so far away when Dave come back a week after disappearing just to tell you he's chosen the enemy as his brother over you.

You'd seen it before, of course. A childhood friend or two turning traitor, becoming "abolitionists"; leaving their country for those who killed it's citizens. It hurt you to see them so lost, but you knew that it was bound to happen to a few.

You just never thought Dave would be one of them.

And now, as you sit in your room, holding Dave's pair of old, cracked triangle shades, you find yourself questioning your own beliefs.

"Maybe he's right", a voice in the back of your head whispers. You've heard this voice before; every previous time, you've ignored it. Pushed it out. Thought it was the voice of Hades; the serpent you were not to obey or even listen to.

Now, though, for once, you listen to the traitorous voice. You consider.

But you just can't accept it as truth.

And it's not just because all the slave's blood you spilled would be abuse instead of righteous revenge. Not because you would have lied to Dave his whole life. If you're being completely honest, not even because it would have made your father's death that of an intruder rather than a honorable solider.

You can't accept it because it goes against every fiber of your being. Your whole life, you'd been taught to believe the words of the anthem; that you were the best, that you deserved the world. That the trolls were savages intruding on YOUR lands. That THEY were the bad guys.

That's what you'd be taught and told your whole life. It was planted as a seed early on, and as you grew, so did the seed. Anthem words like rainwater; the roots of the seed grew deep into your mind, the branches wrapping around your arms, lifting a hymn book as a child and lifting a whip as an adult. The blossoms of the branches that wrapped about you came every once in a while in little moments of happiness - like pointing to the stars and red eyes following your finger - the flowers white like your skin. The definition of beauty.

The tree encircled you at this point; more than that, it WAS you. The roots lived deep within your mind; the branches around your arms directed your every move.

And trying to change how you think now - trying to pull the roots out - doesn't work.

It just hurts.

You sit in your room, staring into shades that are dark like the night sky, where the gods live. The god's that you're betraying with these thoughts of blasphemy.

This new way of thinking? These - ideas - that go against everything you've ever known to be true?

They're really scary. Scarier than any troll you've ever been up against; even more than the highblood that pinned you down once at an auction, claws brushing your throat before five other men pulled him off.

Because if that troll had killed you, you would have died with honor. These thoughts threaten to kill your honor, rather than you. The troll threatened your life; this threatens your sense of self. Sharp claws endangered your skin; this endangers what you are. Threatens to uproot your very beliefs; your beliefs about your world, your gods, yourself.

And that's terrifying.

All these new thoughts; all these ideas; they make everything so confusing. Before, it was so perfect, so clear. So simple. The stories you'd been taught your whole life; the words you'd accepted as truth; they're all being ripped up in this whirlwind.

You feel some of the roots tear free from your mind in the whirlwind, and it hurts so badly you nearly cry. And it's scary, like being thrown into a strange land without a map. You don't know how to navigate these trails; you don't know what to make of these thoughts.

Some might think it would feel freeing. It doesn't. The branches nourished by the ripped-out roots die on your arms and drag you down, making your body feel heavy and dead.

This is the destruction of the anthem you sang in breathes of incense smoke with small hands holding a big hymn book, splashes of colors taking you even higher than the voices around you already did; taking you closer to the gods.

This is the death of the world you used to know.

Catz: I tried to make Bro more than the big bad racist and show that he's struggling with this. As author John Cheese said in his article "I was Raised as a racist - 6 weird things I learned", racism isn't something you can just "turn off", even when you want to. Bro doesn't want to; not really. But Dave is sort of making him question his beliefs. And it's really hard for him.

So yeah. Just a deeper look at Bro's character. A more sympathetic approach. Not that I condone racism - racism sucks. But even closed-minded people do have a human side to them. Like Bro.