Insignia: Scars of Lumierna

One

Several hundred years later.
The chainmail over a blue gambeson rattles as the City of Lumierna's guard in his formal attire persistently pounds on the weak wooden door. He drops his arm, listening for any reply from inside the quaint bakery deep in the heart of the condensed merchant district. This district, through the guard's eyes, is nothing more than a cluster of dilapidated shops with the owners' homes built on top. The sagging buildings lean into one another morphing into an indistinguishable strand of walls snaking through the lower-class neighborhood. Market-goers keep a steady pace as they pass by, their eyes stopping on the guard's broadsword before swiftly diverting to another shop.
The bakery guild sign creaking above the door gives its only distinguishing feature from the rest of the drab buildings made of wattle and daub where the walls are made from woven wooden strips daubed with a material consisting of clay, soil, straw, and even animal dung.
Two more guards stand by waiting patiently beside the single horse-drawn wooden cart parked just outside the steps of the bakery's patio. The building is raised several steps off the market streets. Dirt roads are saturated with trash thrown from the shops and puddles from sources people choose to ignore.
Inside the bakery, the father's firm hand grips the young boy's wrist.
"I don't want to!" he cries.
"It's not your choice. You've come of age. The guards are waiting." His father, a man barely over thirty, lectures as he drags the unwilling boy towards the front door to hand him over to the guards who will escort them up to the chancery at the base of the king's castle. There he will have the insignia for the lower-class bakery occupation bestowed upon his right forearm
The disgruntled father opens the front door to the awaiting guards who stand attentive at the sight of the father and son. The guard standing in front of the door turns on his heel to open a path for the two of them to pass by and step up to the cart.
The young boy stares wide-eyed. His eyes focus on nothing in particular but everything simultaneously as they dart frantically around his surroundings. The father heaves the boy up into the cart, the wooden frame barely making a sound under the boy's feathery weight. He stands in the middle of the cart, his tunic hanging loose around his thin frame despite his father making sure he wore a new belt around the top to dress appropriately for the occasion.
The cart is nothing more than a quickly nailed-together wooden frame with a floor and wheels. The boy's arms cross, curling into his chest as the intimidation from the guards' appearance dwells on him. The father grabs the edge of the cart with a single foot on the wooden wheel and hoists himself halfway up. The young boy sees his opportunity and darts, leaping past his father out of the cart.
Not thinking of his escape route clearly through his head, the thought of wanting to go back inside the bakery to his mother's side clouds his vision. He jumps too close to one of the guards whose rapid response time catches the boy before his feet can even touch the ground. The father finishes hoisting himself into the cart and angrily reaches down to the guard. He takes the scruff of the boy's tunic in his hand and yanks him back in.
He leans down, pulling the boy close to his face as he lectures, "Not only is this a very important event, it's the law. Do you hear me, Stirling? Not attending this ceremony is illegal!"
His voice is a growl, just loud enough for Stirling to hear as two of the guards join them inside the cart while the one who had knocked on the door slips beside the charioteer on the bench attached to the front. The guard pulls a scroll out from where he had it tucked in the front of his gambeson and reads off a name and location to the charioteer. The charioteer shouts to his horse and with a flick of the reins, they begin moving along the market streets.
Stirling can feel the eyes of all the people staring at him as they step out of the way of the cart. He knows everyone knows where he is heading and what lies ahead of him since they too have experienced it and so have their parents, siblings, and children.
He doesn't understand why it was illegal and what truly will happen if he doesn't succumb and get the insignia. He once overheard his father talking to his mother about how they would be arrested alongside him since he was under the age of sixteen and was still their legal responsibility.
Stirling was born into the baker business, a commoner's job. Their shop is owned by his parents, Giles and Janell Bakere. The aged shop has been passed down through the Bakeres, his father's side of the family. The building was built generations ago when Lumierna was first established on the island. His mother was born and raised in a smaller village in the center of the valley. Her elder brother was in line to take over the village bakery she grew up in. She had the choice of marrying one of the wheat farmers on the outskirts of town or remaining unwed while continuing to work at the family bakery. Instead, she decided to set out to the city to marry and start a baking business and family of her own.
He does not see the family history and pride in the bakery. He sees a mundane life that he doesn't want to wake up to for the rest of his life. A bread baker is not a career a ten-year-old boy inspires to be when he grows up, especially when he knows of so many other positions, he could only dream of being born into.
Stirling's eyes were shut tight in hopes this isn't real and when he is to open them again, he will be back home, or even better, somewhere out of the city. He begins to tap his thumb to each fingertip repeatedly in a nervous tick. They have stopped twice to pick up two other children and a parent to be their witness and guardian to sign the documents.
He has kept his eyes shut the entire time; he doesn't want to acknowledge the other children. He keeps tapping his thumb to his fingertips to give his mind a simple sensation to occupy itself with. He doesn't want to know their feelings about today, whether or not they are scared or excited. His father explained to him all the kids born within the month would get their insignias on the same day whether or not they had turned ten yet. This is to condense the workload to a single day because the Chancellor and the chancery don't want to be bothered with making the preparations and gathering in the ceremonial room for a single child.
He can hear the cart's sounds and movements alter as it changes from rolling along the dirt and mud lining the city's districts to the wooden bridge taking them over the moat into the castle's grounds.
Stirling lets his eyelids open, revealing his eyes. The immense hazel irises of golden brown with moments of green like the bright sun shining through a tree's leaves track a guard walking far above them on the thick wall. They had passed the gatehouse of the outer bailey into the outer ward, consisting of the castle's personal livestock and the ancillary buildings to help manage the castle and hold its supplies. The golden eyes cannot resist taking the cut stone's handholds and crawling up the wall of the inner bailey and to the castle looming just beyond it. The towers' peaks block out the early sun, casting down a heavy shadow and leaving the air as chill as the night. A shiver runs through Stirling's body.
They travel across the property to a large stone building jutting out from the inner bailey wall. Two separate parents and their children sit on a bench outside. Both children with tear-stained cheeks, hold a cloth over their right arm.
They slow to a gentle stop. Without saying a word, the guards leap out from the cart and line up shoulder to shoulder about a step apart from each other perpendicular to the cart and a heavy wooden door. Giles picks up Stirling holding him with one arm as he lowers both of them out of the cart to the ground as the two other groups wait their turn to slide out.
A creaking sound fills the quiet air as the heavy door slowly swings open, the hinges groaning from the weight of hopes and dreams it has been left with by the children crossing its threshold.
A man with wiry hair slicked back into a short ponytail stands in the doorway eyeing Stirling and the two other children. He steps aside letting a mother and daughter step through the door frame adding another disregarded wish at its threshold to stand with the other families.
He holds up a parchment quickly reading to himself, his eyes leave the list and inspect Stirling. "Are you Stirling Bakere?"
Stirling stiffly nods in response, his fingers tapping rapidly at his side. His eyes glued to his reflection in the strange man's eye.
The man smirks and says nasally, "Such a suitable name. Come on, hurry up now. You're not the only kid getting marked today."
He makes an ushering motion for them to enter the building. Stirling leans back in protest as his father pushes on his back leading him down the line of guards and through the open door. The man announces to the families still in the cart they will wait for their turn on the bench and the ones on the bench will take their place in the cart to return home.
Stirling's eyes slowly adjust to the yellow light given off by the candles hanging around the room and what light the slender windows in the stone wall allow to penetrate the room, creating elongated rectangles patterned across the floor. Three wooden tables line the center of the room, each with a small stand holding unknown objects beside it. Four people crowd the furthest table chatting, a young woman sits on top and swings her legs as she smiles at the current topic.
Past the empty tables is a raised wooden desk occupied by a row of four men with papers neatly piled in front of them. A fifth chair at the end is empty and pushed back from the desk as if someone has recently got up. The man who had greeted them outside the door shuffles past them and takes his seat in the end chair.
A pampered man in the middle stares down at paperwork. Without lifting his head, he studies Stirling and his father, then continues reading and writing down some notes. Coming to a conclusion, Stirling assumes the one in the middle must be the Chancellor with his embroidered robes and feathered beret on top of his bathed skin and combed hair. Stirling's face is smudged with dirt and his loose curls stick out unruly in all directions as he never tries to tame it.
The Chancellor lifts a new paper off the top of his stack. Without as much as a glance regarding Stirling he reads off, "Stirling of the Bakere family, today in the month of your tenth birthday, you shall be marked with the insignia of the baker occupation lower class. I, the Chancellor, and four clerks from the chancery who are chosen by myself and King Dietrich will stand witness to the branding ceremony."
The Chancellor finally brings himself up from his paper, his gaze landing on Giles. "I will now need the signature belonging to the legal guardian of the child named Stirling Bakere binding him to his insignia and will be kept here in our records vault."
Leaning against the wall, not talking with the other tattooists, is a tall greasy man with his hair tied up into a bun on the top of his head. His assistant, a young woman beside him, gives off the vibe she is overly pleased to be here to help bind these children to their insignias. The tattooist pushes himself from the wall and strides over to Giles and Stirling. His long spider-like legs stretch across the room with his head and shoulders hunched as if to avoid hitting his head on the candles hanging above, or maybe just from years of hunching over a table marking forearm after forearm. His face is blank as his sight crushes down on Stirling, who stares back wide-eyed.
A skeleton hand reaches for Stirling. Stirling takes a half step back as the hand the size of his head seizes him by the shoulder. The boney fingers dig into Stirling's skin as he is pulled to the table in the center of the room. Stirling strains his neck seeking the help of his father, who steps up to the chancellor's desk to seal the future of his only son in the bakery business.
Don't let them do this! Stirling's eyes plead as he sees his father pick up the quill. Even if he could hear his thoughts, Stirling thinks to himself, his father won't help him. He is ecstatic for the day he can pass down the bakery to Stirling and this was one step on the way to his dreams. But not Stirling's, he had no say in his future.
He struggles in the tattooist's grip in an attempt to free himself before his life is permanently chosen for him. Making no progress against his hold, Stirling is lifted from his feet effortlessly and splayed out on his back upon the first table, his limbs thrashing in resistance.
The other tattooists and their assistants end their conversation to watch the child they are glad isn't the one assigned to them.
The tattooist presses both his hands on Stirling's shoulders, pinning him down as his assistant saunters over. Her smile is warm and caring like a mother arriving to help a frightened child. She picks up a leather strap attached to the table. Wrapping the strap around Stirling's wrist and pulling it tight, the notch skips over holes to lock in until the strap cuts into his skin.
He wriggles his arm as she switches sides of the table to do the same to the other. Stirling tugs on the straps. The skin of his hand wrinkles and folds as it catches on the strap, making it impossible to pull free. The leather only digs deeper into his skin, leaving behind indented marks.
Stirling breathes heavily as she finishes locking down his other arm. With his heart racing, he tests the second restraint. No use, he twists his wrists in the restraints ignoring the sawing sensation.
"I've never seen such a persistent one. Should I lock his legs down too? He might try to kick you," the assistant states with genuine concern for the tattooist and little for the well-being of the child strapped to the wooden table.
"Go ahead." The tattooist mumbles as he steps over to the small stand, picking up his ink and tattooing equipment containing two separate wooden rods. One rod is constructed with a sharpened rake shape made of needle-sized dragon bones. It's designed to be dipped into the ink and then placed against the skin. The second rod is merely used to tap against the side of the first rod striking the sharp edge into the skin and inserting the ink into the desired design.
A single tear slips from Stirling's fear-filled eyes as his body becomes completely immobilized, leaving behind a salted trail led by decisions dictated to you far beyond your control.
Stirling twists his neck in an attempt to view his father standing near the table of clerks. Each wears the same distasteful expression on their face as they watch him displeased with the hassle Stirling is putting up, prolonging the allotted time given to him for the ceremony.
The man with the spectacles now satisfied that Stirling's marking has begun checks the name next on his list and excuses himself to escort the next child and parent in.
The Tattooist picks up a large stamp sitting on the stand and brushes a lighter shade of ink across the markings. He steadies it over Stirling's forearm as the assistant stretches the skin taught to ensure the stamp clearly shows the baker's insignia. Satisfied with the centering, he presses down on Stirling's skin, the cool ink leaving behind a perfect outline.
Letting out a sigh of relief, Stirling turns his head to examine the lightly stamped ink on his arm. "Is that it?" Stirling squeaks.
The Tattooist lets out a bellowing laugh but does not answer Stirling otherwise. Instead, he reveals the two rods. Dipping the pointed end of the rod into the ink, he sets it on the new outline. Stirling sucks in the air and holds his breath as he strains his head to turn away, bracing himself for the worst.
With the assistant still holding Stirling's forearm stretched, the Tattooist begins to tap the ink rod driving the small rake-like spikes into Stirling's skin. The air contained in his lungs races out as he gasps. The pain radiating up his arm slowly crawls across his entire body consuming him. Tap, tap tap, over and over again. The only sound echoing in the room as the Tattooist works away at the insignia for what feels like hours. Tap tap tap.
Relief washes over him as a damp cloth wipes his sore arm clean, soothing the irritated and slightly bloody skin. Stirling hears the clunking sounds of the leather cuffs coming loose and dropping back on the table beside his arms. He knows in reality the restraints are off, but he feels they are even tighter than before. Stirling checks over his shoulder to the other children who lay quietly accepting their fate. They had not put up a fight; their tears were from the pain alone.
"Where did all the spark go, boy? Huh?" The Tattooist smirks as he leans over, inspecting the sweating child who refuses to make eye contact. "Time to get off my table," he says in a crass tone.
Stirling's father walks over from the side of the room where he had been waiting. Slipping a hand under Stirling's back, he helps lift him into a sitting position. Stirling slumps as if he has a stone tied to each of his arms pulling him down with the weight of gravity.
Patting him on the back, his father asks, "See, that wasn't so bad now, was it?"
Stirling purses his lips and remains silent. Dropping his head, he watches as his damp cloth slides down his forearm revealing his insignia, a rectangle shape consisting of intricate lines twisting at the corners with a handle running down the length of his forearm designed like a paddle, like the one his father uses to bake bread on. Locking him in the baking business for the rest of his life. Such a commoner's job, he thinks to himself.
Stirling slides to the end of the high wooden table, his feet dangling in the air. Giles holds out his hand to assist him. Shrugging him off, Stirling leaps off the table, landing with a hard thud on the stone floor.
Giles places his hand on Stirling's shoulder and guides him back to the front door. Glancing backward, Stirling sees the Tattooist and assistant have already lost interest in them. They don't look up from their station as they clean and prepare for the next child who is waiting just outside. He looks ahead as he steps out the heavy wooden door as an official baker.