Work Text:
On the day he received the honor of calling himself a Blademaster, Zasan ‘Turomai had been proud. He had devoted his life to the sword and to its study, and to perfecting the art of the blade. He had not come from aristocracy, but he had worked and clawed his way to greatness, and he had known that he would leave his mark on the universe with his skill.
On the day that he discovered that the eldest of his sired children had been granted a military commission, he had been proud. He did not know the boy personally—had never even met him—but he was pleased to know his offspring followed in his footsteps. He was proud, too, of every unknown son afterward who chose a warrior’s path.
On the day that war was declared against the heathens, he had been proud. The Hierarchs had called for the unholy beings known as humans to be eradicated. They called for the humans’ ships to be broken, for their worlds to be glassed, for their young and old, warrior and civilian alike to be slaughtered. It was the will of the gods, and he was proud to enact it.
On the day that he first spilled the blood of a human, he had been proud. He had seen the terror in the small, fragile being’s face, heard the screams, and watched the light fade from their eyes as he ran them through with his blade like a wretched animal. That had been the first of multitudes, and he knew that he had secured his salvation.
But that salvation had been a lie. The holy war had been a campaign of unforgiveable sin. His sons had all perished, their blood wetting the soil of alien worlds, and he had never even seen their faces. The title he had so cherished was now a yoke around his neck that weighed down every step, a poison that had seeped into every facet of his existence. He had wasted his own life, and shattered countless others.
Today, Zasan ‘Turom sat on the floor of his quarters, bare of his armor and bereft of his blade. His robe, his face, and his hands were all streaked with clay as he slowly turned the pottery wheel. His timing with the pedal was uneven, and he found himself employing far too much force in his sculpting. Often, his hands moved unevenly, or he caught a claw in his work, and tore a hole in it. For all his skill with a blade, he was utterly untalented in this pursuit. He supposed that was to be expected; his hands had always been employed in destruction, and never once used to create.
With patience and persistence, however, the lump of clay gradually transformed into a small jar. Its design was simple, and the craftsmanship poor. Once dry, however, it could hold water or food. He might use it to display flowers, or to store some small trinket. The jar was not remarkable, but it was a jar. It was useful. And it was the first thing he had ever made with his own two hands.
He was not proud of his work, but he was, for perhaps the first time in his life, content with it.