sic semper tyrannis

audentes fortuna iuvat

For the sake of what history is worth, for what esteem the collecting and storing of data is held in, and for the sake of truth and correctness, Alhaitham considered memory to be a very poor rendition of actual events.

The majority of details about his early life had been lost to time, thrown from his mind as the Akademiya filled it with the numerous proper ways to kill another human being.

Though, if he focused, he could make out small details. Little things sparked through the darkness as if that might help paint the bigger picture. He could recall the silk of his mother's single formal dress, his father's stern expressions, and the cabinet of the very few treasurable things they owned: a few stones that sparkled, round pebbles from the stream, a pure white feather, and a single totem for the Archons that they'd pray on when in bad health. He didn't believe in Archons now, but it was a nice thought nonetheless.

The house that Alhaitham shared with his parents was made of dark wood. His parents had a room down the hall, and he shared his room with his siblings. Nothing was carpeted, not like the palace, but they had a rug in their living room where his mother would sometimes sit and work. She would sit next to the fireplace, spinning cloth into clothes in a way he'd never be able to understand.

If he focused hard enough, he could remember his mother. She'd sit and chide his siblings from her spot on that rug, momentarily setting her current knitting project aside to sometimes separate them from a fight. She was a kind woman, though not above cruelty. She enjoyed the idea of punishments that served to teach betterment, so nothing went undeserved, but it didn't set aside the fact that it was a punishment. He remembered many a time he spent cleaning the outside of their house in the cold wind due to a snide comment.

His father was a strict person as well. He performed fieldwork, like many of the people in their village, and would spend long hours making sure everything was done correctly, no matter how late he strayed into the night. He seldom spoke, preferring to indulge in the safe nature of listening. He'd listen to other people speak, often the other villagers and sometimes his own children, though rarely his wife, and just nod in approval or shake his head. He'd often stare unblinking from his spot in their kitchen, even long after they'd finished their meals. That gaze seemed to dig into souls, wrench them from the depths of a person's body, and put them all on display. Alhaitham's mother would tell him he had the same eyes.

His older brother was a menace, but he supposed that would make him one too. On the odd chance Alhaitham would indulge him in play, they'd usually spar with sticks or sometimes knives from the kitchen when their mother wasn't listening. They'd litter each other with cuts and bruises, most notable of which was a scar that ran across Alhaitham's left bicep, though he was sure he'd gained several more small knicks across his body. His brother was covered in worse. He'd complain of unfairness, saying that the younger someone was, the worse their ability. It wasn't true, for his older brother never watched. He never once learned from his mistakes. Despite never getting along, Alhaitham supposed he'd learned a lot from him before they were separated.

Alhaitham's older sister was a kinder soul. She took after their mother, learning how to knit and create. He'd watch her draw lines into the sand of the riverbank sometimes, creating marvelous works of art that would only be washed away by the tide. He'd ask her why—why bother to create it if it were to be destroyed? It didn't make sense to him, but she'd only smile and tell him that was the fun of it—to create without worrying about leaving something behind. Her influence on him was enough, or so she said. He recalled that she'd hold her hands close to her chest and tell him and his brother it was her duty to soften out the roughness that boys are born with.

He had a younger sister, too. Alhaitham remembered his mother being pregnant with her, the way her stomach swelled until one day... It didn't. He wasn't allowed to see her be born, and he found her presence annoying up until the day he left. He couldn't stand her cries or the way she couldn't be left alone for more than a few minutes. His older sister accused him of being uncaring, but it wasn't that. He simply found no comfort in taking care of something helpless. She told him he'd better never have a fragile wife, and he told her he wouldn't. He supposed he'd never have one at all now.