I.
My country lay within a vast desert. When the sun rose into the sky, a burning wind punished my lands, searing the world. And when the moon climbed into the dark of night, a frigid gale pierced our homes. No matter when it came the wind carried the same thing… death. But it also carried the essence of life.
I was born on such a night, and in the storm of sand that washed away the skin of my people and destroyed their homes, I came to live. My living has always been the result of some destruction. That was the hope of our people. I was their salvation, amongst a city of death. I was the essence of power, from the very first moment I took a breath. I was the only man born in one hundred years in that desolate, stale desert, and I was destined to rule all. I was born of power, and power was born of me.
My destiny was to cultivate that wind and use it as my own. The day I was born, the winds stopped. The deaths stopped. Life began again. But this time, it was an entirely new life. My mother stared into my eyes and saw in them the essence of death. My body was covered in blood and sand and she could see nothing of me other than the pits of darkness that stared up at her. They were a brilliant black, like the backs of beetles; like the very depths of water, the places where light does not reach and haunted things lurk.
And then she died. Wherever I live, another must die: that was the first lesson. She drew her last breath and I watched her fade away. I took the life she had and I held it inside of me. I kept it huddled within me as she fell to the ground, her head buried in the sand. Lying there in a pool of blood, taking in my first few breaths, I knew the thirst for power. My mother's death was the first taste, and her power became my own.
I never cried as a child. As I came out of the womb, I merely breathed and watched. I watched as the women rushed into my tent, horror-struck at the sight of my mangled, pregnant mother face-down in a pool of crimson. I watched as they rolled her onto her back and hurriedly began to stuff her with cotton cloth to stop the bleeding. I watched as they looked at me, with a kind of wondering fear labouring their eyes, and I stared back at them. No-one touched me for a long time. I lay on my back, staring, watching. I had no ability to move yet, but my brain was already developing.
After a while, an older woman brushed aside the curtains of the tent and entered. Her back was bent and she hobbled towards me, as though bearing a tremendous weight. Her face was withered, but her eyes were fierce and white, lighting up her face. She looked at me, and I looked back. We stared at each other for a long time, speaking with our eyes rather than our words. You killed her didn't you, hers said. How am I supposed to know? Mine responded. And then, Are you afraid?
No. Hers replied. I am not afraid of you. And she picked me up, and held me close to her. She pushed my face into her sagging breasts and held me there, but my eyes stayed open. They were open and silent, watching as the women finished dressing my mother and carried her away.
I was brought to a bucket of water and washed. The blood ran off of me, and the old woman discovered that my skin was burnt, almost black, and my hair was red with blood. She scrubbed and scrubbed, but the blood would not run clean. They always said from then on that my hair was born blonde, but the blood from my mother had stained it forever. It would remain that way for the rest of my life, a curse to bear for her murder. My features were dark, contrasting the bright hue of my head. And even as a toddler, I was strong. Strong and large, taking up a lot of space. That was a feature I would carry with me also.
Even from infancy, the burden of power which I bore was apparent to all who grew to know me.