Beneath the warm sun

1

I don't remember much of my childhood until I was five years old. Every times I try to think about it all the small pieces of memory or even bare dust of my life that happened when I was a toddler vanish the same way all my other memories did. At five I was already being bored inside of the four dull walls of my room, laying on my back watching the ceiling. I never really spoke either. I was distant verbally, always lost in the deep vast ocean of my own mind. I didn't have much interest in anything, playing looked boring to me at some points. At least til I saw what changed my perception of entertainment to me. My father, fighting another man, each other not letting the other a chance to breath. It was a friendly  fight, who ever wanted to see was allowed to come enjoy the spectacle of men fighting until the other would give up or pass out. I was standing on my tippy toes climbing on the fence of the delimitation for the fighting arena. My mother was holding my arm to make sure I didn't jump over it. My eyes were shining with joy and excitement. Cupid and delusional was I to think that Soldier was my dream. I was only five and already being lunatic. Fantasizing about all the cool armor , becoming tall with muscle, I wanted to be one of the best soldier, lead the army during the war. My dad knocked off the other warrior and was designed winner, they handed him a small chess with jewelry  in it, nothing big, just enough to satisfy the winner. I managed to get away from my mother's grip before jumping over the fence and running toward my father. People were looking at me in confusion and judgement as I pulled with despair on the hand of the man who once adopted me when I was still a baby. I wasn't able to get words out of my mouth. It was wide open in excitement and joy. My dad lifted me up thinking it was what I wanted.

- I want ... to fight!! I shouted all mesmerized.

My father's expression lifted up a bit. It was unusual for me to talk, shouting even more. Finally me and him had something to bond over, although it wasn't the best thing to bond over as a father and son.

I was 10 with no friends, but I never really cared, I was too focused on training fighting techniques. Even if sometimes I wished that boy my age would talk to me. They didn't want to talk to me, the son of a general who killed many with his bare hand. I wasn't even from here, indeed such person as me coming from a whole another nation wasn't very welcomed. The general, my dad or more precisely, my adoptive dad, killed my biological father with his own hands, he then proceed to find me crying in my mother's arms, crying and screaming as any normal baby. Feeling guilty as he was not a monster but simply a man doing his duty as a warrior during war, he took me with him and raised me as his own. As the Tagmatarchis of the hellenic army, he has to plan everything, taking a baby with him back home wasn't a part of it but he couldn't help himself . For anyone wondering what a Tagmatarchis is, Basically he's the one who commands. I looked nothing like him it was obvious that I wasn't from his own flesh. Even the dumbest people would notice. My skin was tanned, even more than usual because of the constant exposition to the burning sun of Greece. If it wasn't for my sandale made out of leather that were preventing my barefoot from burning to the contact of the warm white stones. If somebody would've licked me, they would've tasted the salt coming from the sweat that was escaping the pores of my skin to dissolves in the air. My forehead was wet and a part of my hair too. Medium long cutted hair, a dark blond color with silverish reflection in them. Extremely focused on my task to destroy a wooden man that stood in front of me. I heard giggles, the kind of giggle that made your heart get nauseous. I turned around to see three children, maybe a little older than me, standing at the oak fence of my father's house. They were staring at me, my expression stayed unphased, mockeries did not affect me as much as I wish it would. My adoptive mother, the wife of my father named Amanda, taught  me to stay careless at people's insults. It was unworthy of my time especially if I wanted to become apart of the Hellenics. I kneeled and brushed my hand on the floor, quickly grabbing a thick rock. I looked at it and at the kids before throwing the rock right in the eye of one of them. This was a warning to leave, I had no plans to be bothered by unmannered jerks. The kid who received the rock cried out loud before running away calling for his mom. The two others glared at me, not daring to come near, being the son of a general had benefits after all. When they left I returned to my task that I had gave myself. I came back inside with my white tunic all dirty, my mother gasped horrified. It was expensive. I apologized before taking it off, I offered to wash it myself but she insisted on me getting changed and going to eat.  I enjoyed the meal, rice with bread and some potage, something warm and comforting as the burning breath of the fire against your skin on a cold winter night.

I loved to go to the nearest lake and throw pallets of rock in it. The sound of the rock bouncing a couple of time before sinking  in the greenish opaque water like a Kelpie dragging his victims at the bottom of the water. Drowning them before eating the rotting flesh of the poor people that felt into the trap. I was helding thight onto the rock, tales and legends always fascinated me, especially the one supposed to scare people. Something catched my attention. A small boy with long dark brown hair falling over his face, they were messy and curly. They felt around his sobbing expression, covering  his puffy eyes enough to make it look like he was laughing sometimes. He looked my age, even if he seem younger of a year or two. I looked at him before going back to throwing my rocks. The sound of the splashing water made him notice me, he stared at me with a suprised face. Almost like he saw a ghost.  His eyes were as deep brown as a freshly ground coffee beans and vanilla pods mixed together in a homogeneous powder used for painting. His dark skin that reminded me of calgary italian leather gave him a soft look. He was a little smaller than me. I didn't look away, I didn't like the way he stared at me. It obviously made him feel embarrassed as he ran away back to the village.

Walking to my house  felt exhausting, I kicked the sands and small unlucky rocks that would've happen to be on my path. I was taking the time of my life going back home, staring at anything that would catch my eye and analyzing it. I heard screaming and  shouting, it made my hear buzz. I peeked a bit to see a familiar looking boy get slapped by who it seem to be like his father. I frowned a bit but continued my path. It was none of my business I was only ten, I couldn't do anything against it either.

- Orion! I heard my mother call out, it was time to eat I guessed.

Sometimes even my own name felt blurry in my mind, it wasn't my real name. Orion was the name my adoptive father gave me to fit in with greek, it was also an honor to Orion the great giant hunter from the tales, or for people who might know him by his nickname ; Candaon. My actual name was Atticus but no one ever called me that. I couldn't careless to be fair, a name is only used to design someone. If people recognized me more with the name Orion today, Orion will be my name.