Chapter 83 33:
"In the name of Argall, this hatchling." It was heard said in whispers.
The general did not return the embrace, but neither did he reject it.
He remained motionless, like a living statue, while Nul-lam squeezed with all his strength.
That pressure, capable of bringing down a steel column as if it were a bar of modeling clay, had done absolutely nothing to the giant's waist.
Five, ten, perhaps some thirty seconds passed, but Null-am had not had the slightest intention of letting go.
Finally, when it seemed that an entire minute had vanished within that strange, disconcerting stillness, the general spoke.
"What did I tell you the last time we spoke? In the name of Argall, let go, hatchling." The general's hoarse and battle-hardened voice had been strident, but it lacked any trace of cruelty.
In his own way, it seemed to have been an attempt at a scolding, one that actually worked.
Null-am tensed his shoulders; Korr thought that the hatchling would refuse at that moment, but surprisingly, he obeyed. His arms slowly separated, and he took a step back. However, he straightened his back, brought his heels together behind him, and placed his small right fist against his chest.
"For the glory of Argall, this non-commissioned officer salutes the great general!" exclaimed Null-am, his voice still broken by contained emotion.
It was like hearing the squeal of a squirrel, which seemed to bewilder his father. On the other hand, the general observed his son's military posture and was at least able to detect seven flaws in it.
His gaze descended to the boy's left arm, where a humanoid-shaped object remained pressed against his side in what appeared to be a submission hold.
Wait, that was not a submission hold.
Exasperation seemed to arise within the general as he slapped his face with his gigantic hand.
"Oh, great Emperor, Null-am, you... what; what is that supposed to be... hatchling, what exactly do you have in your hand?" he asked with a dreadful curiosity that seemed to filter through his discontent.
How had his seventh son become someone so emotional? The previous six had never expressed such weakness.
Null-am swallowed hard at his father's question.
Trembling, he lifted the stuffed toy with both hands, presenting it as though he were offering a treasure.
"It's... it's a stuffed toy, sir. T-that's what this is called. Look, father, it even looks like you."
The general took the object between his thick fingers and examined it.
That replica looked nothing like him; it was patched up, and the corners of its mouth seemed to have a facial contortion tilted upward.
Few times in all his existence had he experienced such facial contortions.
On the other hand, it was clear that this miniature replica of a Viltrumite warrior, with the three bars painted on its chest, the bald head, and the same characteristic mustache of a typical warrior, was attempting to emulate his physical features.
The only thing that truly connected it to him was the name, Bullc-am, engraved on the back of that worn, fluffy thing.
General Bullc-am felt many things for an instant. There were so many, both new and old, that they seemed to tingle through his reinforced torso.
This hatchling... only...
A sigh seemed to generate an aerial stampede across the entire expanse.
"This... this... this makes absolutely no sense. Just, Null-am, for what purpose do you have this?" he asked in a voice lacking the verbal edge with which he generally addressed his subordinates.
Nul-lam lowered his gaze, embarrassed.
"It's... it's t-to have my father close, sir. When you aren't here and... and when I sleep alone... h-he takes care of me."
The general opened his mouth with the intention of saying something, perhaps correcting him, but his voice betrayed him. He could not even articulate a single word.
With a filial ache, Bullc-am closed his eyes for a moment; by the time he opened them, the mask of the great and ruthless general had returned to its place, although upon seeing the shining eyes of his son, he discovered that he had not armored himself completely.
"This, this... is... curious," said the general, with an unusually neutral voice, disguising his suspicious favoritism beneath an exhaustive evaluation of the uniform his son wore. He had even been provided with a gray fauld, bearing a non-commissioned officer's bar.
He was, in every sense, a child of the Empire's war; just as his father was, the first of his seven sons.
He remained silent for a moment and then, slowly, extended his enormous hand and placed it atop his hatchling's head. His fingers, capable of pulverizing steel, barely applied any pressure to the child's hair.
"I... the skies of the Empire are my witness; I feel profoundly proud to have you as my bloodline, Null-am."
Those words were like a rock falling into a pond, sending ripples throughout the nervous expanse.
The child looked up, his eyes shining with so many tears that he seemed capable of unleashing a salty deluge barely held back.
"Sir... I... father..." stammered Null-am.
"Compose yourself, Null-am," the general interrupted him, demonstrating a tone that lacked harshness. "You are now a non-commissioned officer of the Empire; behave as such."
The child nodded vigorously, blinking several times to dispel the moisture threatening to escape from his eyes. He straightened his back once more, recovering the military composure he had learned.
"Much better," Bullc-am said.
Then the general extended an open hand toward him.
"Fly with me, Null-am. Tell me how things have gone for you in the Dorymathos."
Null-am took his father's hand in a fraction of a second, allowing himself to be guided by his progenitor. His emotion was barely being contained.
He felt so much happiness, so much joy; this day would be the most valuable day of his entire existence.
Then they rose together into the violet sky, becoming two silhouettes that gradually vanished among the clouds.
Korr watched the scene from a distance, his jaw slightly open, bewildered.
Emotions were a weakness, my ass. The Empire's social life had proven to him that it did not seem to be as one-dimensional as the four walls of the Dorymathos appeared determined to teach him.
He admitted that he would have preferred to believe that in this twisted world only the Empire's doctrine existed, but it seemed that, even if only among one's own kin, that disease which the government insisted was a weakness—empathy and love—could indeed be found, little by little.
On Viltrum, for better or worse, something like that could indeed exist.