Notes - This story is suppose to take place approximately 10 years after the Endless Waltz sequencing, when the boys have become men. The basic idea is that, as a whole, the GW pilots captured a continent on Earth and started their own empire. The basics of their empire are covered in the Epilogue. Comments, flames, suggestions, what ever are welcome...not so much flames, but you get it.
Disclaimer - the only thing I own are Desari Syndil, and the story itself.
EPILOGUE - THE LESSON
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Silence - a foreign concept for this small village school house. Students ranging from five years to nearly seventeen years occupy the space, the elder students taking up the back rows where they share their escapades with all the vulgarities that they can manage, where as the younger students sit in quiet awe at the fore front of the small room. All the intermediary take up what seats they can, closest to their own, in the effort to keep their numbers strong should the class above them move to strike while they are without supervision. The ruckus that each grade provides is an effort to be heard over their neighbors, who, in turn, only raise their voices to be antagonistic, which results in a never-ending cycle of screaming and yelling to be heard over someone else.
The sound abruptly ceases, however, when a wizened old man shuffles through the doors to be greeted by the unforgiving din, and casts a hard eye upon all those that sit before him. Indeed, that strong expression causes the little children to recoil in fear, and the elder children to still - some out of respect for the totem head, others to be spared the cane that he maintains so threateningly upon the wall. Spare the rod, spoil the child is not so much in effect in this place - they are, what higher society would consider, a "backwards" community. A soft hand is not a part of this place, nor is a gentle and comforting word, lest it be upon the home front, and even in that case, it is few and far between who are treated kindly.
The crooked elder continues to fix each and every one of his students with his glassy eyes, waiting until they either look away or wince, and is highly satisfied that he can still manage to make every single one of them break eye contact in under thirty seconds. His face contorts into a self satisfied smirk that appears more of a snarl, then continues toward his desk, set in the center of the rather large room. The hunched figure shrugs out of his traditional professor coat, laying is haphazardiously upon the great wooden desk.
"Make ready."
A man of few words, none of which are kind, he has ground obedience into his pupils, giving them orders without embellishment nor a kind tone. The quiet shuffling of papers and opening of desk lids ensues, each child producing a writing utensil and a shief of paper, as per their teacher's direction. The sound of ink wells opening and the desperate scratching of pencils upon the underside of desks punctuate the slowly materializing silence, each student at the ready to enscript the words that their instructor is about to speak.
Waiting uncharacteristically until each student is prepared, the professor comes to the front of the desk and perches himself upon the corner, his thin and brittle arms crossed over his shallow chest. He looks upon the faces of those who sit before him, feeling, oddly, at a loss. How would he make these children ready to face that which would take place in only a few days? How could he drill in strength to these weak minds in just a month? He continues to stare vapidly at those who occupy the room, his frown deepening slightly.
"As most you know, our society has a yearly custom..." How many times has he given this speech? Yearly? His eyes drop to the front row of eager eyes, trying desperately to find his words. A delicate cough punctuates the stillness of the room, the guilty party's hand flying to their mouth to muffle the noise, their effort all but too late. Abruptly the professor stands and sidles to the wall behind his desk, toward a hand scripted map that hangs upon the wall.
"Our country is divided by four. To the North is the realm of Lord Yuy, and is the base of our country's higher Military. To the West, home of Lord Maxwell and the birthplace of Industry. South, Lord Wufei and the Army. And finally, East, Lords Barton and Winner, and the place of Higher Thought and The Arts." During his monologue, his weathered and cracked hands move over the outline of each of the provinces, clearly defining the boundaries of each.
"At the center of our country is a place known as The Core, and is home to none, but houses a gigantic facility used but twice a year, or for conferences between The District...that is what the Lords are known collectively as, The District.
"Each year, the men who turn eighteen are sent to The Core upon the turning of the Spring season, and are assessed. Proficiencies are considered, as well as the physical and mental tests that they will be exposed to, and are thusly assigned to a District for more formal training. They who are philosophical or artistic are put under the care of the Lords Winner and Barton, where as those who are exceptional in the art of War are sent to train under Lord Yuy. For those gifted with crafting knowledge and engineering abilities, they are put under the care of Lord Maxwell. Lord Wufei is charged with the training of those who are talented with War, but do not have the same prowess that Lord Yuy seeks. For those who are lacking in these four areas, they are distributed to each of the Lords, and are put under the care of their Agricultural division, where they will learn to farm and to raise live stock..."
Having his back turned to his class helps to abate his fear of their reaction, as he can not see the young men, preparing to turn that fated age, with their jaws agape or clenched, nor the expressions of utter shock upon the children's faces who did not have the previous knowledge. Perhaps the trepidation should have worn thin by now...does he not give this speech often enough? The fact that these children cannot remember from one year to the next should not be any concern to him! What does it matter? Why bother offering this now, when they should have remembered from the years prior? Why bust his own ass only to have his pupils forget?
"...a month prior to the men's evacuation, young girls who are approaching or are already within their sixteenth year are subject to the ceremony of The Gathering. Dependent upon the location of a village, delegates of the District are sent to collect all young girls who are of age, and take them to The Core.
"There, all girls are subjected to...testing, and cleansing. Those found unworthy are then returned to their village, where they may do what ever they might desire - they may return to their schooling, or travel abroad. Once released from The Core, these girls have been through the rigors and the right of Womanhood, and are considered adults, thus having control over their life. They are no longer under the control of their parents, though many girls return to this comfort.
"For those who do pass these rigors and are not returned to their villages..." He hesitates here again, once more uncertain. Where they ready? This is always the classic struggle of doing what is right and keeping these young minds safe, and it always caused the elder pause.
"...for those who are not returned to the villages, they are combined with others hailing from the same District, then offered as insurance of good will to the other Districts..." He forces himself to stop and glare over his shoulder here, responding to the plethora of gasps and other noises of shock that radiate from each gaping mouth that arises with this new information. The younger children, those who have only been inducted into the school yard ranks within the past year or so are spared from his glaring and unforgiving glare, where as those who have heard this charge before are bored into. There are, however, a few with the expression of a convicted soul, readying themselves for the long mile walk. Systematically, each mouth closes and all pairs of eyes are dropped to their desk, all unwilling to charge their tutor further. With a disguised growl, the elder turns about to face the class, anxiety for their well being being dismissed, as it always is.
"Each District lord chooses one girl from each of the other Districts, as well as one from what he offers. Each Lord is granted four girls a year from this meeting, and they are all inducted into his harem. Little is known about these girl's lives after their induction, and it matters very little at such a point...why aren't you writing this down, hn?" The sudden lack of lead and quills nibs scratching against paper press in upon the old professor, his cold glare squaring off with each person who sits before him. As though collectively compelled by a higher force, every child reaches for their writing untensel and begins to scratch fiercely against the white of their paper, paraphrasing the old man's words. A deep sigh is offered against the sound of the writing masses as the elder sits gingerly in his chair, a light shake of his head being given. How many of these students will take away something? It doesn't matter, does it? Nothing will change - it hasn't for many, many years, why should it now?
As the scratching subsides, a gnarled hand reaches out for a thickly bound book upon his desk, and gives a deep-throated cough to gain attention.
"Now, if you all will open your composition books..."