Pandora's Box

Chapter 3: Part I

The training yard's coarse sand chewed into Malachai's bare feet. The weather-worn timber crushing his shoulders pushed his neck painfully forward and the water jugs swinging from the ancient wooden beam made marching in a straight line impossible. His back ached and his calves felt like acid had been flushed through them. His muscles quivered, but Malachai would not stop. 

Not ever.

He wouldn't give that boot-licking orphan the satisfaction of seeing him quit first.

Marching in similar ragged form twenty feet from Malachai's left shoulder, Donovan fared the same under Cedrik's punishment. Malachai watched the cadet's shoulders sag, tugged lower and lower under the weight of his own wooden burden. A spiteful burst of energy surged in Malachai's chest and he powered through the next pair of trudging steps. 

It seemed the afternoon was not going to pass without a certain measure of satisfaction after all.

"Alright, you two, that's enough," called the bulb-nosed watch officer from his seat within the shady confines of the tent doubling as his duty station. Malachai had watched the man shift papers from one pile to another for the better part of the afternoon. 

He imagined what the man would look like with hot irons put to his eyes.

The watch officer shuffled a clutch of freshly stamped documents into a neat stack, then handed them to a messenger standing at firm attention next to the officer's table. "The commander said to cut you dolts loose after a couple of hours. I reckon it's been about twice that."

Malachai let the beam tumble from his shoulders and to his knees in the sand. The jugs attached to the beam emptied their lukewarm contents into the sand, pooling around his knees and quickly soaking into the earth. He worked a kink at his neck, wiped a flood of sweat from his eyes with the back of a grimy hand and looked across the yard at his adversary. 

Hate filled the pit of Malachai's stomach.

Donovan's teeth were clenched and a matte of hair covered his face—while he completed a final agonizing lap with the beam.

Incredulous, Malachai watched as Donovan not only kept the water jugs perfectly level, but managed to set them down evenly before returning the beam to a tilt against an equipment shack with a thatched roof.

The hate boiling in Malachai's gut pushed a lump of throat-squeezing rage onto the back of his tongue. That miserable bastard was always doing that, Malachai thought. Always trying to one up me. Always finding little ways to curry favor with that damnable Cedrik. Always stealing Pandora's gaze from its rightful place.

"Is there a problem Corporal Killian?" the duty officer asked, producing a crusty kerchief from a pocket before blotting his forehead.

Only then Malachai realized the vibration in his shoulders originated in the fists clenched by his sides. He hated that Donovan's mere presence had such effect on him; that simple proximity drove him so easily to fury. He exiled the tension from his muscles. 

"No, sir. Just catching my breath."

"There's a good lad then," the duty officer replied. He gave a shooing gesture. "Off with the both of you then."

The duty officer abruptly stood and leaned over the table, palms firmly planted. "I'm sure I won't be having the pleasure of your company again any time soon, will I?"

"No, sir. It won't happen again. I swear it," Donovan said.

The sound of the orphan's voice filled Malachai's ears with hot iron. Gods above, I hate him... Look at him—he's nothing! Why can't everyone else see him for what he is? A nameless vagabond with no station, no standing. No family!

A warbling sound doused some of the fire behind Malachai's eyes. It took a few notes, but the notes eventually morphed into the duty officer's voice.

"Don't make me repeat myself, corporal."

Malachai thrust his shoulders back to a firm attention. "No, sir, never again."

The duty officer returned to his seat. "Dismissed."