by Alex Rey
As the sight of Carpla came into his eyes, Molar stammered, “H-hi father.” Please don’t hurt me! I can’t stand any more punishment!
Carpla shook his head when he mumbled, “You disgrace me.”
Pondering these words, Molar took a shameful look down at his paws. Thoughts of
his father spread through his mind—along with thoughts of his father being on the correct side of their conflict. What if he’s been right this whole time; what if I really am a disgrace?
As his father started a talk with the human prison-guard, Molar began to think of how much his life had turned upside-down in a matter of days. He could only imagine how much his life would have changed—had a year gone by.
Remorse still pounding in the depths of his head, Molar overheard Carpla speaking to the prison-guard. They were both on the subject of whether or not he should have been given a fair trial.
“Are you sure?” Molar heard the human mumble. “Because with him being your son and all—I think you should give him a trial at the least.”
“I’m still thinking about it, though,” responded Carpla.
Molar couldn’t believe what he was hearing! His father was actually contemplating on whether or not to give him a fair trial! Who within reach of the world would even need to think about protecting their child? Even at his young age, Molar knew very well that was his father’s duty.
While aware of Molar’s youth, Carpla had never expected something so unpredictable to pass from his beak—so undeniable as to think the slaves didn’t deserve their laborious torment. As much foolery Carpla believed his son withheld, he gave Molar a chance by having Yofel give him a trial. “I’ll let him have his own trial—and my father will be the judge.”
As Molar heard these words of mercy, he heaved a great sigh of relief. He wished to thank somebody—anybody—for this miraculous moment. His short moment of peace ended when the startling sound of heavy footsteps echoed into his head.
“Okay Molar—Carpla is going to let you out so you can have a trial in three days,” snorted the prison-guard as he unlocked the barred door—the very same door in which Molar had done so much work on trying to open, but only to fail in the end. The door creaking, yowls of jealousy spilled out from of the other prisoners’ mouths and beaks—extending all throughout the prison.
The prisoners’ begging came to an end when the prison guard’s hoarse voice sounded through the small land of anguish, “Shut up!” Just as the command sounded, however, Molar and Carpla were already on their way to the prison’s exit.
As they exited the prison, Molar began to come up with an idea to regain his father’s respect. His plan seemed a very simple and classic to anybody with common sense. Maybe if I act like the perfect little griffin, my father will appreciate me!
Hope flaring in his head, Molar placed a smile on his face as he kept a safe distance away from his father. As the father and son made their way to their castle in the sand, Molar kept his beak sealed, ensuring he would not say anything wrong. Even the utterance of a single word, he feared, could spill a blow from Carpla’s sword.
Unfortunately, Molar’s plan quickly proved a failure. No concerns of misfortune occurred through their trip at all, giving him no reason to speak out or even defend his father. And with the silence between the two, not a single spark of sympathy could have possibly lit up in Carpla’s mind.
--
Once at their castle, Carpla carried Molar up to a room at the top floor of the castle—just to lock his son up once again. Unfortunately for Carpla, he only had two sets of shackles for his son—which meant he had to move to drastic measures.
“Wait—what are you doing?” Molar wondered as Carpla lifted his blade up from the ground. Without a moment’s worth of hesitation, the father swung his sword down and lopped off the son’s two rear feet.
Feeling his own feet retract from the rest of his body, Molar released a great howl of pain. Never before had he screeched as loud as he had at that moment—and for a good reason. While completely unaware, Molar’s screams ended up causing a crack in one of Carpla’s glass-based artifacts.
As Molar’s screams came to their end, Carpla hastily placed his son in shackles. Now with two sets of shackles—one per each of Molar’s remaining feet—Carpla explained through a growl, “I’m going to keep you here. If I hear so much as the tiniest creak of either the door or any of the windows opening, I will personally put you back in the prison.”
A look of both fear and anger spreading out on his face, Molar watched as his father left the room leaving the door wide open. All the while did Molar desperately try to keep his cries of anguish under control. I can’t believe that—that—I hate my father! And he hates me too!
With the trial being held in only three days, Molar begged himself to do the best he could to prove his innocence to Mocrano and his father. Now in the midst of this prison of a room, Molar grimly thought, I hope grandfather doesn’t cut my head off!
If he wanted to win this trial, Molar had to receive help before he became executed; he needed somebody to put his feet back on the ground. There was only one problem: who on Mocrano would ever help him in his current state? It seemed as if all the help he could have received was either taken away from him or burned into a pile of ash.
For the longest time now, Molar hadn’t done anything but insipidly hang from the duo of shackles. At many points during this time would his screams of anger release themselves throughout the castle. Okay, he would always tell himself after a series of screams, just be thankful that father had the mercy to let me have a trial!
Although Molar agreed that his father was very merciful to give him a trial, he still thought it was unfair for the Mocranians to have ever put a griffin of his age in a prison. Having much youth surging through his bones, he had never before been to a trial. He had never been sure on how a trial would work, no matter what his action had been.
The only thing Molar knew about trials was how they gave Mocranians a second chance if they had done something wrong. Of course, slaves never had the chance to a fair trial—as they were simply thrown into a prison once they had made a mistake. At least that was what Molar had heard.
A storm of thoughts concerning facts of what he could say at the trial in his defense buzzed through his mind. Although many of these ideas seemed to prove brilliant at first thought, time gradually made him realize how foolish he had first been.
When he came on the brink of finding a perfect idea, he heard a small tick coming from outside. Oh no, Molar screamed silently. I forgot!
Almost instantly, he jerked his head over to the room’s window—only to see all three of his friends vandalizing his father’s castle by scratching negative comments into the walls. Shock and utter disbelief coursed through Molar’s mind at this moment. They were my friends one day—and now they want me dead!
Fighting back all thoughts of resentment, Molar asked of his former friends, “What are you all doing?”
“Don’t talk to us, you traitor!” called a coarse voice.
For a split-second did Molar wonder who had uttered these words. Where could they have possibly sprung from? With further investigation was Molar able to discover these words were expelled by none other than Mesd.
“We don’t want you here!” the usually mute griffin called. “You call yourself a griffin? You call yourself a Mocranian? I’ve met hundreds of slaves who were more of a Mocranian than you are, Molar!”
Even with chains holding him back, Molar held enough view within his eyes to take sight of Mesd’s angered stare. Such was a sight he thought he’d never come to witness within the span of a hundred centuries.
Terribly injured and sick of all his torment, Molar decided to rest for his trial day. If he were going to win such an important decision over his life, than he would need to think as well as he could. If he were going to think as well as he could, he would need all the sleep he could receive. Completely ignoring all the hatred from outside, he allowed hi
s mind to drift into listlessness.
Chapter VI
The Trial
As the next morning drew ever-nearer, Molar’s fear for the outcome of his trial grew ever-stronger. It had been exactly three days since his father had taken him from that prison—three days since the beginning of his gradual demise.
Thankfully, Molar was able to receive much rest through the past few days. The fear of his father cuffing him to the ground once again had swelled through his head, causing himself to cringe away from Carpla whenever Molar caught sight of him trotting through the castle’s halls.
For three days had the little griffin remained strapped in shackles—restrained in chains, to say the least. His bones itched every day for freedom, for the freedom to go outside and run and play. At the same time did he notice as the chains started to rust after only a few days. Such a sight caused slight disgust to enter his mind.
It was during his time in these rusting shackles when he could reminisce about the times before he had become an enemy to Mocrano. All those times he had spent running, flying, catching fish; all were to be taken away from him in one fell swoop.
Breaking into his thoughts, Carpla came walking into the room when he demanded, “Come on—we’re going to the Mapharaux.”
“Um. Now?” wondered Molar with a nervous smile forming in the back of his beak.
With a shriek did Carpla snap, “Yes! Right now! Get out of your shackles and follow me.”
A pause came between the two as Molar looked down at his only constraints. Is he serious? wondered he. Again and again did his gaze switch from Carpla to the chains. Finally Molar came out and asked, “How do I get out of these?”
And yet another pause commenced before Carpla released a sigh and came up to his son.
Oh no! thought Molar. He’s not going to hurt me, is he?
Cringing away from what he expected to be another round of torture, Molar waited for his punishment. It was within heartbeats, however, when he felt the once restrictive shackles releasing their grip on his ankles. Huh? he silently asked, taking a look up at Carpla.
“Come on!” he commanded. “We have to get going!”
“Okay,” called out Molar from behind, starting himself on a slight run—only to remember two of his paws were missing. Maybe instead of running, he thought, I’ll just fly!
It was after quickly sipping from a glass of malid—which had been conveniently placed at the castle’s front room—when Molar rushed up to Carpla’s side. Readying himself for the fight that was to be his trial, the little griffin gave the castle’s front doors a great push.
“Wait!” called Carpla, halting his son all the while. Upon catching Molar’s attention did Carpla reach for a set of robes sitting just below where the glass of malid was. Shoving the dirt-ridden cloth in front of Molar’s face, he growled, “Put these on.”
These robes presented to Molar—while they seemed to have belonged to a noble at one point— came splashed with a heavy dosage of filth. Nearly every space on these filthy clothes looked as if they had been dragged in the dirt for a whole day and drenched in a puddle of mud for a whole night.
While appearing dust-covered to the eye, these robes smelled of blood. What could have been done to make what was once a pinnacle of fashion into an insult to both the eyes and nose? Thankfully for Molar, he and all the other bone-created Mocranians hadn’t any sense of smell at all.
Hesitating, Molar thought to himself, Where has that thing been? As these words continuously echoed about in his head, he crept up to the robes—after which Carpla wrapped them around his son. “Keep still,” he would hear over and over again as he timidly waited for his father to finish.
Upon finding himself all tidied up, Molar noticed as Carpla walked out his castle’s front doors. “Wait for me!” he called, raising himself off the ground.
As the father and son passed through their home’s barriers, Molar asked of Carpla, “Why did you put this dirty robe on me?”
A moment of silence passed. Without taking so much as a wince over at his son, Carpla responded, “I don’t know.”
“Oh,” replied Molar, struggling to hover with just the right speed and altitude. “Well, can I take it off?”
“No!” rejected Carpla through a surprisingly cunning voice. “You keep those robes on through the whole trip!”
“Fine,” Molar sighed. But in his mind he was thinking, Please get it off me—it’s itching like crazy! These thoughts in mind, he jittered about in mid-flight, occasionally bumping into his father all the while. More and more did he thrash about in midair, which caused him to silently urge his wings to hold him steady. Quickly did he completely forget about his itching and he instead focused on trying to set the balance in his wings.
At last did Carpla stop in his tracks. “Stop that!” he finally shouted after enduring what felt like a year of feeling his son bumping into his shoulder.
A surge of fear spreading through his bones, Molar nervously planted himself down to the ground. As his feet beheaded feet touched the ground, he resisted the urge to release a great cry of pain. Well, what am I supposed to do? he wondered all the while.
Almost as if Carpla had taken a plunge into the griffin’s mind, he explained through a sigh, “If you want to fly, stay a bit further from me. Just a bit. Understand?”
“Yes,” assured Molar, growing testier with every passing heartbeat. A sigh escaped from the little one’s beak before he pulled himself up off his feet once again. Not too close but not too far, he constantly reminded himself all the while.
It was literally a chore to have to hover above the ground while keeping his distance from Carpla and resisting the urge to scratch at his still-itching bones. Every now and then would he grunt with anger as thoughts of helplessness refused to leave his head.
With time however, such thoughts were replaced by thoughts of regret. Why couldn’t I have just kept my opinions to myself? Molar thought while sighing. Although he was coming up with a plan, he was well-aware of how difficult it would have been to win without anybody to help him. He often asked himself why anybody would bother to help him, but the answer always came out the same. He was a complete disgrace to everything the Mocranians believed—as far as they were concerned.
Molar could only imagine the pain he would soon feel. He pictured the Mocranians standing idly by while a blade swept through his neck. He could feel it now; the blade slicing through his neck, the cheers of many resentful Mocranians. It would have been chaos for him to take sight of this room full of cheering despisers.
Regardless of whether or not he received the death penalty, Molar remained afraid and weary of whatever Yofel would do to him after the trial. As far as he was concerned, the penalties for crimes against Mocrano usually involved imprisonment, banishment, and even Mocranian enslavement. Being that Yofel was his grandfather, Molar realized how unlikely it would have been for him to receive death.
“Father?” Molar asked while keeping his distance. “Do I need to tell the truth in this trial?”
“Yes.”
This single word smacked Molar with the intensity and speed of a lightning bolt. Regardless of the shock he had just received, he replied simply, “Okay.”
If he had to act in complete openness and honesty, Molar would have to tell himself how much of a displeasure it would be to work alongside the slaves. Doing something as simple as looking at a worn-out slave could make him feel a terrible sickness build up within him. Working with them would have been much worse than him than for the slaves. The slaves are bad, the slaves are bad—
On his trip to the Mapharaux, Molar passed many Mocranians—half of which shot him threatening glares when Carpla had his back turned. He silently told himself to ignore these silent threats whenever they came into his sight. The proving of his innocence to Mocrano was of more importance than what these Mocranians’ biases had to say.
With time did the noble and outcast find themselves growing nearer to the Mapharaux. They co
uld feel its glow shining over their gaze, allowing a slight sense of glory to penetrate their minds. Surrounding them, however, was a horde of hundreds of other Mocranians just waiting for their chance to enter the Mapharaux.
Holding himself close to Carpla, the frightened griffin suddenly realized why he was given the filthy robes. My father didn’t want anybody to know it was me! Pulling the irritating clothing over his face, he nervously looked up and down and all around—to realize nobody had noticed who he really was.
A wave of relief swept over Molar at that moment. Nobody knows who I am! This is great! How long it had been since he’d taken sensation of freedom, he hadn’t known—but he felt as if he could fly out into the Mocranian wilderness without punishment.
There was only problem with this sensation: he couldn’t express it. If such an occurrence were to take place, Carpla would chase after him—or maybe even cut off his last two remaining paws! Such a thought made the little griffin’s spine quiver—quivering just enough for his robes to slip off the rest of his body.
Oh no! he silently screeched as his only means of disguise fell to the ground.
“Hey!” a child called out from behind, “It’s Molar!”
A quick turnaround allowed Molar to take sight of the hundreds of Mocranians—who had already locked their gaze on the troubled griffin, none of which seemed at all pleased.
Oh, come on! Molar cried. He and his father were just in the midst of the Mapharaux’s opening—just under its welcoming rim. Were they to be taken all the way to the back of the line just because of the Mocranians’ inability to tolerate Molar’s opinions?
As the surrounding Mocranians prepared themselves to remove Molar from their presence, the frightened griffin rushed into the Mapharaux. Through millions of Mocranians did he pass, rushing for his life until he found himself in the midst of a bright and beautifully-lit room.
Forgetting all about his fears, Molar stopped in his tracks to observe the area surrounding him. All across the ceiling was a group of chandeliers—all of which cast their noble light upon him. All the while did he feel as the light’s warmth assured him peace in serenity after this trial.
