Part-I of IV
Brotherhood
I am the sky above. I am above the hills and also above the valleys. I remember the days when the mist clung to the hills surrounding the marshy valley like a lingering spirit. It was a time of legends, of bonds stronger than the roots of the ancient pines that watched over us. I witnessed the story of two brothers, Nazareth and Mainou, born of the same womb but destined for different paths.
Nazareth, the elder, was like the hills themselves—steadfast and unyielding. His eyes mirrored the sky; clear on a sunny day, stormy when wrath took hold. Mainou, with his heart as vast as the valley below, bore the gentleness of the lake's calm waters and the curiosity of the wandering winds.
Their childhood was a tapestry of hillside adventures, their laughter echoing through the valleys and their silhouettes often spotted racing the sun to its resting place. They were inseparable, two halves of a whole, until the day the responsibility of their lineage called to them from the fog of the future.
As they grew, so did their dreams, divergent yet intertwined like the branches of the fig trees under which they’d played. Nazareth found his calling amidst the peaks where the eagles soared. He dreamt of a kingdom that stood tall and proud against the backdrop of the nine layers of hills, a kingdom that would be a beacon of strength and endurance. Naza, he called it, after himself, a testament to the unshakeable bond he felt with the land.
Mainou, however, was drawn to the mysteries of the valley that had cradled their childhood. The marshlands whispered secrets of old, and the south lake, with its serene surface, promised a depth of wisdom. He wished to build not just a kingdom but a cradle of life and learning, where the marsh and the water were not obstacles but wellsprings of sustenance. Meeyam, it would be known, a homage to the nurturing spirit of their mother.
The day came when Mainou had to descend from the highlands to the valley below, and the brothers stood at the threshold of their domains. They embraced, a clasp so tight it seemed to fuse their souls. "Remember," Nazareth had said, his voice thick with unshed emotions, "the blood of the hills runs in your veins as it does in mine. We are of the same earth, the same sky."
Mainou had nodded, his own eyes glistening with the promise of tears. "On the 15th of Mera, look to the south lake, and you’ll see my fire. It will burn bright as a star, a signal of my love for you and our tribe, a testament that the heart of Meeyam beats strong."
And so, they parted, but the fire never did. Every 15th of Mera, as the moon bloomed full and round, a flame would dance on the southern shore, a fiery beacon that pierced the distance and the darkness, binding the brothers beyond sight.
Years turned like the pages of an ancient book, and under Nazareth’s watch, Naza flourished. The peaks bore homes that touched the clouds, and the people thrived, robust as the hills that cradled them. Meanwhile, Mainou’s Meeyam became a symphony of green and blue, a land where the waterways sang and the marshlands yielded harvests that fed more than just the body.
Their kingdoms were two halves of a world, separate yet one, a testament to the brothers' love and the different strengths they brought to their people. It was a golden age, a time of prosperity that the bards would sing of for generations to come.
But as is the way of all tales, darkness found a crack to seep through. It came in the form of Koupak, a name that would be etched in infamy, a shadow that loomed from the south, where the lands were unknown and wild. His band of marauders, cloaked in the guise of desperation, brought with them a storm that ravaged the hills of Naza. They tore through the land like a blade, leaving sorrow in their wake.
Nazareth, upon hearing the wails of his people, donned his armor, a mantle of vengeance. With the fury of the storm that raged in his eyes, he led his army to the south, to the very edges of his kingdom. The clash of steel and the cries of battle were a cacophony that shook the heavens, and when the dust settled, the bandits were scattered like leaves in the wind.
It was in this aftermath of chaos that Koupak, a jackal in the skin of a man, found his way to the heart of Meeyam. With his band broken and scattered, he played the part of the humbled defeated, seeking mercy from those he once sought to destroy.
Mainou, with a heart perhaps too large for the realm of men, saw the women and children among Koupak’s ranks, their eyes brimming with fear and loss. Compassion moved him, and he reached out with a hand of peace, offering sanctuary in the southern mountains that once belonged to Naza but had been abandoned during the strife.
It was a decision made with a benevolent heart, but it was also the first thread of Meeyam’s unravelling. With Nazareth’s reluctant blessing, the people of Koupak were given a new home, and for a time, it seemed as though the valley and the hills would know peace once more.
Yet, in this peace, a shadow lurked, a harbinger of betrayal that would bring Meeyam to its knees. But that is a tale for another time, a chapter that darkens the heart and turns the stomach. For now, let us remember the days of brotherhood, when two sons of the hills stood side by side and dreamt of kingdoms that would stand the test of time. Let us hold on to the image of the fire on the 15th of Mera, a symbol of an unbreakable bond that not even the deepest treachery could fully extinguish.
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