For some reason, I have to start out referring to the main character of any story as "the boy". I don't know why. Sorry for how short this chapter is, I'm not sure whether I should continue writing on this story or not. This is my third fan fiction, my second attempt at a story. (I'm still writing on 'The Tooth', it's just not going along very fast). Thanks for checking this out!

The boy sat there. He was perhaps eight years old (as the drow measure time). He sat quietly, already knowing better than to open his mouth until he was spoken to, knowing better than to lift his eyes from the floor unless he was ordered to. He was uncomfortably aware of his sister's eyes on him, digging into him like the fangs of her whip.

"What," she began, her sharp, intense voice causing him to flinch slightly. "What in the Goddess's name made you think you were possibly capable of understanding that book?"

"I can read." he replied. As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized he'd made a mistake. He cringed further into the corner, hating himself both for being so afraid of her and for being so foolishly unafraid of her. He had found a book (one of hers) that she had been reading. It had been a little hard to figure out at first, but he thought he had been starting to get the idea. Not that he liked the idea; it had been 'an exploration of the doctrines of our Goddess'. He had continued to read the book, though, mostly because he liked reading such challenging material. Now he stared at the floor and bit his lip, waiting to be punished.

To his surprise, she did not snap her whip from her belt or shout out in anger. She dropped to her knees beside him, lifted his chin in one slender, dark-skinned hand, caught his eyes and held them. He had no choice but to stare back at her, angry and frightened at the same time.

"You can read," she said in that belittling tone he had grown to loathe. "You can see the words that people have written down and comprehend the language. But you simply cannot understand. Your weak, silly mind just does not have the power to decipher complex trains of thought." He glared at her. She smiled nastily. "And it never will." she added for good measure.

"I know." he said, also knowing he was really pushing her now. She released his chin and stood up again. He continued scowling at her, until she lifted an eyebrow, threatening, and he dropped his gaze again.

"Obviously, male, you do not know." she said. "Or you would also know better than to speak to me in such an insolent tone. I shall have to teach you." Then she did pull the whip out of her belt and whatever conflicting and confusing feelings the child was feeling at that moment, he quickly lost them all in the instinctive knot of terror blooming in his stomach. He whimpered and cowered, wanting to lift his small arms to protect himself, but afraid it would anger her, trying to force an apology out of his suddenly dry throat. He failed, but she wouldn't have cared anyway.

The boy slowly learned that he must not make his sisters, or his mother, or any female angry. If they were angry, they would hurt him. They had a right to do whatever they pleased to him, because he was weak and stupid and worthless. The only way to give any meaning to his existence was to serve them, to please them, because they were glorious and strong and powerful and clever. And if he pleased them, he thought to himself, maybe they wouldn't beat him so much.

A lingering bitterness lived inside him in the place of his old defiance. He knew he was foolish and weak, but he couldn't help hating it, hating himself and his terrible deficiencies. He cried himself to sleep for countless nights, wishing with every fiber of his young heart that he had been born under different circumstances, that he had come out perfect, unmarred by the sign of masculinity, able to make something out of himself.

But no one wanted to hear about his grief or confusion, no one cared about him. And why should they? He was, after all, just a male. He resigned himself to the dull emptiness of his existence.

The boy, Nym, was sixteen. He knelt silently on the floor before his matron mother.

"You will train to be a fighter." she was saying. "When you are ready for the Academy, you will be sent to Melee Magthere. Any stupid questions?"

"No, Matron Mother. Thank you, Matron Mother." He was terrified of her and it was all he could do to keep his trembling semi-invisible. He stared at the ground and tried to calm himself somewhat.

"Then get out of here." He rose quickly to his feet and backed out of the room.

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