End of Games

Chapter 11

It is said that history repeats itself. Not with the same people, of course, for people are born, and what is born is destined to die; be it plant, animal or human. One may add that even magic was born, for it too died with the deaths of the last dragons. The addition, however, would be speaking of Dragon Magic, not all magic, as there exists other forms of magic.

Speaking of, there exists many forms of magic in the Known World, and the continent of Essos is home to many of them. To some groups of people, their magic is more than magic, it is the basis of their religions, religions that necessitate temples for worship and rituals and to house priests and priestesses.

One such group of people is the people of Jogos Nhai and their priestesses referred to as Moonsingers, and one night finds eleven Moonsingers and their leader the High Moonsinger chanting under the full Moon atop the roof of their large Moon-white marble temple in Braavos.

Their voices rise and fall as one as they ceremoniously cut the palms of their dominant hands to draw blood, and let it fall to the floor to draw a circle while they rotate around a mature albino direwolf imported from Westeros specifically for this ritual.

This direwolf was chosen for its rarity and its white fur and red eyes, but most importantly, it was chosen because it was prophesied many Moons ago that the sacrificial ritual of a white direwolf with red eyes would begin the end of slavery in Essos. As the Jogos Nhai abhor slavery, they have waited for the discovery of the rare albino direwolf for centuries, until a Moonsinger seer foresaw its birth in northern Westeros and the search for it began.

The presence of the barking, growling, howling and occasionally whimpering direwolf is proof of the success of the search, and as the High Moonsinger approaches the direwolf with an unused sacrificial knife after the completion of the circle of blood, she begins singing an ancient sacred spell passed down from High Moonsinger to High Moonsinger to initiate the main sacrifice and fulfill the prophecy.

And so, it is with the ancient sacred spell-song in his ears that Vernon Boyd wakes in this world after his death in the arms of his Alpha Derek Hale in his birth-world. But before he can fully wake, memories that are not his own come flooding and overwhelm him, for they are not pleasant memories.

They are memories of an Unsullied—a fearless enslaved eunuch elite warrior trained from childhood, as early as five years old—known yesterday, for only yesterday, as Torgo Nudho in High Valyrian—meaning Grey Worm in the Common Tongue—for the Unsullied have no real names.
~
Unsullied Barracks, Astapor
Boyd:

Waking up, I know that I'm supposed to be overwhelmed and panicking, but I'm not. I know I have no name, but I also know that I'm Vernon Boyd. I know that I'm no one, but I'm someone. It's strange. Stranger still, I'm a stranger in someone else's body and mind, yet not. Well, I am, but… It's confusing and complicated.

I should be dead, not possessing someone's body, or whatever this is. Do werewolves possess other people's bodies and infiltrate their lives when they die? Is it body possession if I'm kind of that person? Is this some kind of Fusion Dance, Potara Earrings or Fusiontrix from the Dragon Ball franchise? Wait… Would this mean that dragons exist? Most importantly, though, have I really been enslaved? And castrated?

I don't want to open This One's eyes to confirm everything, but-whoa! This One? I'm not enslaved and I haven't been brainwashed and harshly trained into an Unsullied since I could remember. I'm a fully realized person and I will not address myself as 'This One.' I am Vernon Boyd. The bravest of the Unsullied and-whoa. There I go again. I am not an enslaved eunuch warrior.

"My name is Vernon Boyd," I whisper aloud to remind myself so that I don't forget when I open my eyes for the first time, clenching my fists. "Vernon Boyd the Third from Beacon Hills. Named after my father, who was named after his father. I had a younger sister named Alicia Boyd. And our mother died eleven months after she disappeared. I was turned into a werewolf by Derek Hale to become his Beta with Erica and Isaac. I am free."

I inhale deeply and exhale with an elongated sigh more out of habit than necessity to still myself as I prepare to open my eyes.

"This One was Mossador from the Island of Naath," says someone to my left, and within a second, I have my knee on his sternum and my short sword on his throat, my low threatening growl in his stoic face, although his eyes dilate somewhat. "This One was Mossador from the Island of Naath," he repeats after a moment, like he isn't afraid and doesn't care about the sword that threatens to slit his throat open.

No. Not like he isn't afraid and doesn't care. He isn't afraid and he doesn't care. He really doesn't care whether he dies or not. I know this because This One… I mean the person I possess, doesn't or didn't? care as well. He just lived to serve the Good Masters until he is sold, and then he would live to serve whoever bought him until he has outlived his usefulness or his death.

This knowledge makes me sick, but I don't interrupt as the speaker who said he's Mossador continues.

"Brother to Marselen, Musedar and Missandei," he says, in a language I just realize is foreign to me, yet I understand and know it, for I spoke it too. The language is called High Valyrian. "This One's eyes are red. What is This One? What is a werewolf? What is a Beta?"

It takes me a moment to comprehend what Mossador said and which 'This One' he is referring to, and I blink in confusion. I know that I'm displaying my werewolf eyes, but they are yellow, not red. One look at my reflection on the flat side of my short sword after I angle it accordingly proves Mossador's description of my eye color correct; my eyes are glowing Alpha red. I blink again, in shock this time.

If I remember correctly, Kali, Aiden and Ethan of the Alpha Pack made Derek bury his clawed hand into my gut to drain my werewolf power and kill me. I died. I died content despite the ultimate results of my accepting the Bite. But how come I'm an Alpha? Werewolves don't exist in this world, as far as I know, and the knowledge of the person I'm possessing says the same, he wasn't a werewolf either before I possessed him.

Despite this revelation and the many questions it raises, the person I'm… OK. I have to stop referring to him like this. He deserves a name, but I have a pressing matter at the moment, so I decide to call him Grey, for now, at least.

Now, despite the revelation and the questions, Grey's warrior - child soldier - mindset would rather not question in favor of seeing how useful this new development can be, and try as I might to get answers or try to, I remember that I'm possessing a grown enslaved child soldier's body and I'm surrounded by thousands of others like him.

Speaking of, I remember that I have my knee and short sword on someone, and retreat to sit on my bedding beside his on the floor. The Moon bathes me with its light from the window, and for a moment, I fool myself into thinking I'm back home for comfort, but the full Moon brings me unpleasant memories. I remember how Derek's younger sister Cora and I almost killed Derek and Derek's favorite werewolf Scott McCall after being starved of the moon for three months by a pack of five Alpha werewolves.

How I kind of resent Scott as much as I envy him and wish I could show him and Derek my new Alpha red eyes. As much as I was kind of content when I died, I find that a part of me resents Derek for not being the Alpha Erica, Isaac and I needed and for failing to properly train us.

'But at least he didn't brainwash us,' I think, as I look at Mossador. 'But he did want us to kill our fellow schoolmate Lydia Martin because he decided it was a good idea to give the most narcissistic teenager in Beacon Hills Jackson the Bite, resulting in the murderous kanima and its Master.'

Speaking of masters…

"Would you like to be free?" I ask Mossador in High Valyrian, something that I do without thinking.

The language sounds normal on my tongue, and I absentmindedly notice that  Mossador's brown skin color is many shades lighter than my original own.

"Free?" He says, the word sounding foreign on his tongue and tone. "This One is Unsullied."

"Yeah, but don't you want more?" I press. "Don't you want to be free to do whatever you want? Maybe find your siblings?"

"This One is Unsullied," Mossador repeats plainly, emotionlessly, and I'm reminded of the deep, extreme and harsh brainwashing and conditioning the Unsullied are put through.

I realize that if it is difficult for adult child soldiers to be de-and-reconditioned and reintroduced into society, it is almost certainly impossible to de-and-recondition an Unsullied. It is almost a guaranteed lost course. If I want to escape, I'll have to do so on my own, but what do I do about Mossador? He's still looking at me, now sitting on his bedding. I remember his questions.

"First, I'm not 'This One'," I finally begin my response seeing that he is interestingly curious and inquisitive, and I don't want to be alone with my thoughts at the moment. I blame Erica for this. "I have a name; you can call me Boyd."

"This One is Unsullied," Mossador interjects in my prolonged pause as I try to recall the order of his questions. "Unsullied are addressed as This One."

"Not me," I say. "Not anymore." 'If I don't die again soon and this possession thing is indefinite,' I think. "I am Boyd, and these red eyes show my status as an Alpha. Before you ask, an Alpha is a leader of a werewolf pack, and a werewolf pack is a group of supernatural beings that are half-human and half-wolf. The group consists of an Alpha, Betas and there can be Omegas."

As I say the last word, I realize that 'there can be' part is wrong. Every pack has the three distinctive ranks and Derek's Pack was no different. As much as Derek called Erica and Isaac his Betas, they were actually Omegas and I was the only true Beta, the only one of us who was constantly by Derek's side and never his punching bag or got sent to run errands.

This realization makes me wonder about Alpha succession in packs and if Derek is alright and still an Alpha, but I don't allow myself to dwell on the thought.

"Betas are like officers and Omegas are like warriors who await orders from the Alpha through Betas," I explain to distract myself from thoughts of Derek's wellbeing.

I find it surprisingly easy to do and I disturbingly don't feel guilty about it.

"Are you going to tell the Handlers what I told you or is there honor and a bit of loyalty amongst us Unsullied?" I ask, but I already know the answer.

There is no such thing as loyalty amongst the Unsullied, only to the Good Masters and the owners the Unsullied are sold to.

"The Unsullied honor only the Lady of Spears and are loyal only to the Good Masters," is Mossador's answer.

I know what I have to do, I have to kill him and escape before Sunrise. But where will I go? I get a sense of deja vu. I've been here before, contemplating leaving a place I wasn't safe in anymore. I was with Erica the last time and we were captured twice. Derek was right, after all, we survive as a pack. The problem is that I don't have a pack. I'm all alone. Even when I wasn't, even when I was part of a pack, Derek's pack, I didn't survive. I died and woke up here.

Why am I even here? And as an Alpha? And a slave warrior? Wait. I'm an Alpha surrounded by elite soldiers any Alpha would kill to have as their pack members. This sounds too good to be true. People don't just die and get resurrected and reborn as elite warriors among thousands of other elite warriors, let alone as Alpha werewolves capable of turning the other elite warriors into unstoppable forces of supernatural nature.

I pinch myself so I can wake up, but I don't feel any pain. Grey's memories remind me that the Unsullied don't feel pain due to their harsh training and a potion that damages their pain receptors. I don't feel any pain, but I feel my hand. This is real. I'm alive, an Alpha, an enslaved elite warrior and among other enslaved warriors. I look at Mossador, at his brown skin and mine—Grey's—and remember the history of Black people where I come from and that he said he had siblings. I had a sibling too.

I can't kill him. And I can't leave him and my other fellow enslaved warriors, people, behind. I just can't, even though I know they have been thoroughly conditioned and brainwashed into seeing themselves as nothing but slaves and I probably can't undo the damage. I can't undo the damage, but I can do for them what I couldn't do for Erica. I can avenge them. I can avenge them and put a stop to all of this and the 'Good' Masters.

Maybe this is why I'm here and an Alpha. Maybe this is why I have been reborn as Grey, to understand the pain and loss of the Unsullied and be their voice and break their chains and stop this from happening to other children and families. I knew this was too good to be true. I'm not here to live an Alpha's dream. I'm here to put a stop to a terrible thing and I'll need help to do it, the Unsullied's help, but they're not going to give it to me willingly because of what has been done to them.

I understand what I have to do, and I'm grateful that I can't feel guilt, for the Unsullied have been conditioned to feel no guilt.

"You're right," I tell Mossador. "The Unsullied honor only the Lady of Spears and are loyal only to the Good Masters. I'll go and tell the Handlers what I told you right now."

I stand up, wear my armor and helmet and arm myself with my weapons and shield—things that Grey owned before I took over his body—as the Unsullied are suppose to do when they're not asleep, but I don't intend to tell the Handlers anything. I look at Mossador for a moment and then the other ninety-eight Unsullied that are sleeping, and remember everything that has been done to them and me—I mean Grey—before I leave our shared quarters with hate and vengeance in my heart.
~
Nakloz Pyramid, Astapor
Kraznys mo Nakloz's Servant Quarters
Missandei:

Another night, another dream of the white beaches and tall trees of my home island Naath. But as always, there is smoke rising into the sky from my village burning to the ground. Every now and then, I have this dream that turns into a nightmare of the day my village was raided by slavers and I was stolen to be forced into slavery when I was five years old, along with my three brothers I haven't seen since that day.

Life is not what it used to be, not that I truly remember much from before, but I'm fortunate to be Master Kraznys' translator. I'm a slave, yes, but he treats me better, not by much but better is better, than most of the other slaves and he saw to it that I was taught to read, write and speak many languages, nineteen so far. I'm perhaps the most educated slave and woman in all of Essos. This is what I remind myself of every time I have the nightmare.

My only solid memory of my home, of where I come from, is a nightmare I don't know if I want to stop having or not. This pains me more than anyone knows because my people are a peaceful people and yet the last memory I have of them is not peaceful. Such is the sad fate of the peaceful in this world, and even sadder, I'm peaceful as my people still. I think of the dream before it became a nightmare and hold on to the memory of the white beaches and tall trees of home and try to fall asleep again, silently wiping away my tears.