Khorshed
Legacy Name: Khorshed

Son of the revered General Huskain.

A sentence that, though it should have, did not sound right to Khorshed's ears – his father was everything the army desired; he was obedience, respect, skill and discipline. He, in revenge, was not exactly what they needed: he had long hair, which was extremely uncommon in the army and even forbidden. The simple fact his hair grew out of the cap he had to wear was considered intolerable by his direct superiors, but being headstrong and reckless as he was, he had firmly refused to have it shaved off. His name was suddenly spoken through whispers – sometimes through jokes, but most of the time through insults and disrespect: he was going to be sent back home.

General Huskain, though, would apparently not hear it that way. He knew how respected he was, how much power his simple voice weighted and had forbidden his son's superiors to send his back to their homeland – what would he become, anyway? An industry worker? A lowly barman? The great General would have nothing but a great son. His skill with words had convinced the higher-ups to let him handle the matter personally; his son would stay, but to a cost.

Khorshed was given a tough choice (though in reality there wasn't much of a choice) ; shaving his hair off was, from all perspectives, the best one. Yet the other was the one he picked.

How he remembered that day. It was beautiful outside – as beautiful as a day could be when two nations clashed every hour, every minute. He remembered the pale gray sky and the sporadic missiles that cut through the air and headed South; the stench of the dead wasn't so bad on this particular day, even for the senses of a tracking dog. He remembered the day he was branded as “rebellious”.

The metal of the blade had just been taken out of the forge and its iridescent gradients of red and yellow alarmed the young man. He knew his punishment would involve a high amount of pain – he would've not dared to pretended otherwise – but the dagger held with a heavy smith glove was about to cut through his flesh.

Through his ear.

Khorshed ran a finger through his hair, over the right side of his head. It brushed over the scar – he could still feel the immense pain, the sting, the dead, he could still feel and smell his flesh melting like it happened the day before. The feelings had been present through the seven years he had been in service to the army even though he acted otherwise. He bore the mark of his own irrational judgment; disrespect of a direct order from a superior and it would always be visible to others to see.

As his head dropped, his forehead fell in his palms and a low groan escaped his throat. He knew there was no use in regretting, yet it seemed it was all he could do at that point; he knew his early convictions were hardly worth losing an ear and half of his hearing, but the past was nothing but the past.

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Pixel Khor by Saga ♥ ; ;