Commander's New Clothes

Chapter One: A Rock

My life was saved by needle and thread. By what I could create with my own two hands. By the way my calloused fingers could weave a needle through fabric. By what my mother taught me.

When I was younger, it was just me, my brother Aloysius, and my mother. My father had gone off to fight with the Resistance when I was young. I can only remember his face when I'm dreaming. My mother was responsible for raising my brother and I, two kids so full of energy we could have defeated the First Order just by annoying them to death. Aloysius (we called him Aloy), was only a year older than me. My mother was hopeful that he could protect me, being my older brother and all. But I was the one who took care of him.

While my brother would play with the few other boys in our village, my mother kept me inside and taught me how to bandage wounds, cook meals out of practically nothing, and, most importantly, sew.

"Why does Aloy get to play and not me?" I remember pouting to her one particularly hot afternoon. I wanted nothing more than to feel the cool breeze on my face, not to be cramped inside the stuffy one room hut we called a home.

"Aloysius will help in other ways," she said. This was always her reasoning. That Aloy was needed for the elusive "something else".

"I need you for something special. I need you to be like a rock."

I stifled a laugh. "A rock? You need me to be lumpy and ugly and dirty?"

"No," she said gently. "I need you to be strong. I need you to build great things. I need you to be sturdy. I need you to weather the storm and protect others."

I gave her a blank expression.

"One day you will understand," she reassured, tucking my hair behind my ears and cupping my chin, as she often did.

I learned to stop questioning why Aloy got out of doing the practical work. My mother was gentle, but stubborn. She knew how to stand her ground, and she didn't let anyone walk over her or tell her what to do.

I hated cooking, and I couldn't stand the sight of blood. But I eventually fell in love with sewing.

My mom said I was a born prodigy. I think she was just being nice because, truthfully, I was terrible at first. I remember my brother ripping his pants after playing outside one day. I had asked my mom if I could try to fix them, and surprisingly, she let me. I pricked my fingers three times trying to navigate the needle, and when I was done, there were zig zag stitches all over his pants. He never complained though. I think he felt bad that I could never go play with him.

When I improved, my mom let me help with the sewing, tailoring, and garment making that brought the little money in that kept us all alive. Our village was pretty poor, but my mother's prices were criminally low, and everyone liked her well enough. She was known to make free blankets and scarves in the winter for those who couldn't afford it. Despite our financial situation, we made some beautiful outfits. We got fabrics from scavenging and bartering. My mother could make a wedding dress out of old tarp if she wanted, and it would be stunning.

It was no glamorous life, but I didn't mind it. I didn't really have friends, but I found the company of my mother and Aloy to be plenty, and enjoyed chatting with the other villagers as I measured their bodies and carefully stitched together their clothes. I loved going to the markets during sunny days and standing in the center of it all, counting how many pieces of clothing I could see on other people that I had made. As I got older, the numbers went up and up. I felt like an important member of the village. Maybe that's what my mother had meant. Like a rock.