'Some day in the distant past it was a different man in my place, and a different man's son in the field. I've come the full circle now, haven't I, and yet so little has changed. Now the tables have turned; I am the observer at last, looking for a life fit to destroy--I should have expected that I'd find it so close--

'His mother will never forgive me, but so much is unforgiven between us that it hardly matters. It is not her decision, nor is it the boy's or even mine. The same decree of the powers of old has marked him, sentenced him as it once did me. He can no more escape his fate than I could. It will kill him, slowly, painfully; his death begins now. I'd strangle him myself if I only had the heart, but I don't. The heart is always the first thing to go.

'Jeice, hate me if you must, if that will sustain you. Someday you will understand what drove me to this; I can only pray that you will still remember these bygone days, when you were still my son.'

*****

The young herdsman sighed and glared at the ambling line of cattle; they seemed to be moving particularly slowly. Once they were penned, his day's work would be done, and he was eager to get home. He wiped the beaded sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, watching the sunset. The orange glow highlighted the color of his skin and reflected brilliantly from his dusty hair. He'd tied his hair back in a ponytail to keep it off his neck and back, but his thin sleeveless shirt was nonetheless soaked and clung damply to his wiry body.

The last few cows were walking through now, followed by their ever-protective bull. Jeice hopped down into the chute beside them, stationing himself at the gate. With the look of passive disinterest so typical of bovines, the last of the cows shuffled past the boy, lowing softly as they joined the rest of the herd. The bull, however, balked suddenly, and stared at Jeice.

"Get moving, baka," he chided. "Your cows can do much more for you than I can." The bull grunted and turned to face him, head lowered.

'Shit, he's going to charge. Stay calm, don't act threatening and maybe he won't attack--' The bull bellowed and ran for him. Jeice instinctively threw his hands forward and suddenly the bull stopped; no, fell back, actually, as though something had hit it. It shook its head a few times, and looked uncertainly at Jeice, confused. The bull's ears pricked at the sound of the lowing cows, and with one last apprehensive glance at Jeice, it ran into the pen. Jeice closed and locked the gate with a sigh of relief. That bull was a troublemaker; he'd pulled these sorts of antics before, breaking several of Jeice's ribs on one occasion.

'He's not afraid of me, that's for sure--why did he stop?' Jeice pondered as he trudged the dusty road home. Nothing in his twelve-year lifetime of experience could explain what had happened. He felt oddly energized, sort of like he felt after sparring with the other boys. He used to stick to his own age group for such matches, but lately had been taking on much older opponents. He lost more often, and when he won, he won at a high cost, often limping home covered in bruises, with the occasional black eye or split lip. He didn't mind, but his mother seemed quite upset about it. She didn't like fighting; she especially didn't like the idea of Jeice fighting, which he found odd. After all, she was married to one of their races' topmost warriors: the great Cheada.

Most of what Jeice knew of his father he'd learned from his friends; his mother never wished to speak of Cheada. 'She probably misses him,' Jeice thought. 'After all, he's never home--' Jeice knew better than to press his mother for details. Lureine was very open about most things, but there were some subjects she simply would not discuss, even with her son. The more he tried to pry, the more withdrawn she became, her eyes glazing over with sadness instead of sparkling with their usual lighthearted laughter. She was so beautiful when she smiled and laughed, so Jeice stuck to safe topics that would keep her happy. She deserved to be happy.

Jeice broke from his reverie as his best friend, Fetta, came pelting toward him, flushed and breathless.

"Jeice, you'll never guess--"

"Where have you been all day?" Jeice interrupted. "I thought I could expect you at least for lunch."

"I know, I know, that's just what I was going to tell you," Fetta panted. "I've been indentured! I work in town now, with the smith!" For a moment, Jeice could only stare.

"So--you have a job? You finally decided?" Fetta rolled his eyes.

"Well, if wasn't exactly my decision, but yeah, that's more or less it. That's what I'm going to do from now on! What do you say to that?"

"Well, um--congratulations," Jeice muttered, flustered. Of course, he and Fetta were reaching the age when most children were chosen for their profession, but somehow the seriousness of it had never really struck home until now. 'Man, my own best friend indentured--unreal.' Fetta slapped him heartily on the back and danced away.

"I just wanted to tell you. I've gotta go, Jeice; I'm late for dinner as it is. We'll talk more later, okay?"

"Okay." Jeice watched his friend go, disappointed that the hadn't had the time to relate his own tale. Bluffing a bull was hardly as exciting as being indentured, but--Jeice continued on his way, deep in thought. No craft had yet shown an interest in him; it looked like he would end up herding cows for the rest of his life. Unless--

He hardly dared to think about it, but there was always the slim prospect of becoming a warrior. Now there was a profession of ambiguous modality. The recruitment process was a closely kept secret. No one entered the fighting class of their own initiative; they had to be chosen, and once chosen, they were taken away, trained, then deployed to some remote location on the planet. It was generally held that once a child was chosen, his family and friend would never see him again.

None of that mattered. A whole new life awaited a warrior, one filled with excitement, action, pain and pleasure. Warriors lived well; Jeice needed only look at his father to see that. Cheada was wed to the loveliest woman on the planet(or so Jeice felt), had a good-sized home(though he rarely lived there), and a large enough salary to keep him and his small family living quite comfortably. Jeice was most appreciative of the food. As he approached the house, he could smell dinner cooking. Drawing closer, he could hear voices inside: his mother's, and a deeper one he suddenly recognized as his father's.

So Cheada was here. Jeice made a hasty attempt to neaten his appearance, brushing away the dirt that had collected in the creases of his loose-fitting pants, and untying his damp hair, fluffing it out as best he could. Cheada's thick mop of hair was more like a mane; for all his attempts, Jeice had never managed to replicate the effect. Squaring his shoulders and doing his best impression of a manly swagger, Jeice strode into the house.

"Come here, Jeice," Cheada bellowed, and Jeice rushed to comply. Somehow his father always knew when someone arrived, even without seeing or hearing them; it was like a sixth sense, one Jeice was barely able to comprehend. There were things about his father he had long since given up trying to understand. Jeice found his parents in the main living room, Lureine sitting anxiously in one corner, Cheada an imposing statue in the center of the room.

"Stand up straight, boy, and let's have a look at you." Jeice stood ramrod-straight, arms at his sides, struggling to swallow the butterflies threatening to escape his stomach. He boldly looked Cheada in the eye and nearly collapsed on shaky knees. His father's stare was cold and sharp, knife-like; Jeice found himself thinking that it was probably less painful to be run through with a knife. When he could bear it no longer, he lowered his eyes and heard Cheada's sullen grunt in reply. Jeice couldn't help feeling like he'd just failed some crucial test. He cast a questioning glance toward his mother but she refused to meet his gaze, staring at the floor with her hands folded in her lap, knuckles white.

'What is she so worried about? Father wouldn't hurt her; he doesn't even seem to notice her there. Maybe she's worried about me, but why would--' His train of thought was abruptly curtailed as Cheada's fist slammed into his head. Jeice reeled, holding up his arms in feeble defense until the darkness cleared and he saw his father again, fist still clenched, looking sour.

"Come on, boy, I thought you could fight!"

"I can fight!" Jeice protested. "You just caught me off-guard is all!"

"Ha!" Cheada swung again, and this time Jeice managed to dodge. "A true fighter is never caught off-guard. If you want to fight, you must be ready for battle every moment. Most of the time, you won't choose your battles; they'll choose you, and they won't be polite enough to ask your permission first!" Cheada kicked out and Jeice tried to block with an arm, screaming in pain as he realized his mistake.

'He's just too strong. Even when I block him I get hurt. He could kill me without even thinking about it. Is that why mother looked so scared?' He saw Lureine pressing her hands to her the sides of her head; she hunched her shoulders, bowing her head, and her long silken hair spilled forward to shield her delicate face. She looked like a woman forced to watch her worst fear come to fruition. Cheada ignored her and swung again at Jeice, who leaped nimbly back, eyes darting, looking for an escape. His father snorted.

"I know what you're thinking, boy, and you can forget it. I'm faster than you, too; you wouldn't get far." He turned away from Jeice's bewildered stare.

"Do you mean to kill me, father?"

"Only if you let me," Cheada growled. He attacked again, backing Jeice into a corner. "Fight, damn you! Fight me!" As though time had suddenly slowed, Jeice saw the monstrous fist coming for him, too fast to dodge. Just as he was about to give in to his fate, something inside him flickered, then flared; it was anger, rebellion--power--

Jeice roared and felt the flux in energy as it exploded out of him, plowing into Cheada with just enough force to knock him back a few steps. Jeice fell back and braced against the wall, panting. Cheada stood motionless a moment longer, then nodded, struggling to hide the mixed pain and triumph on his face. Turning on his heel, he left the house without a word.

When Jeice was sure Cheada was gone, he rushed to Lureine's side. Her thin frame shook with harsh sobs. Jeice knelt on the floor in front of her, trying to catch her eye.

"Mother, please don't cry. I'm okay, really. He didn't hurt me that badly." Lureine suddenly grabbed him and held him close, still weeping. Jeice felt her tears land in his hair.

"Oh, my dear, my only son," she whispered. "He will."