It was in those days that I saw what a force of nature my grandmother truly was. She carried herself with the grace of a deer, even with a limp. In a room full of young warriors, she had the presence of a giant and was treated like one. Her words were commands, pronouncing every letter of every word without any muffling.

Each morning I was woken up by the rhythmic sound of wood and stone gently hitting each other. Townsfolk often came asking for advice, announced by the rattling of my grandmother’s idols hanging from the ceiling. Some had problems with their kettle, others with their children, and those unluckiest of them all - with love. She had the wisdom of five lifetimes, and everyone who stepped in our house knew that she would give them a bitter but much-needed medicine, even if it was just a few words.

“Jassen wants to fight, he wants to go soldiering.” - the woman from the house next door told my grandmother one day.

It’s never easy for a mother to let her child go, let alone when it wants to go throw its life in war. There were times when soldiers guarded outposts and came home to their wives at night. The last generation saw life without war, and it filled its children’s heads with stories of battle and bravery. Now when the drums of war started beating, those same children hurried to pick up the swords last used by their grandfathers.

“He always played with a wooden stick, pretending he was fighting. I paid no attention. I didn’t discourage him. He’s a boy. That’s what boys do. But he spoke to us on the field the other day. He wants to join the army next time they pass through.” - she said, and the red bags under her eyes said all the rest.

“I see.” - grandmother replied.

“And he’s serious about it too. I see it. He’s got a bag ready, and some old veteran from town gave him his leather armor. That oversized thing looks ridiculous on him. He’s only fourteen… I don’t want him to go fighting. He’s not meant for that life.” - she said, sobbing.

“How do you know?” - grandmother asked.

“He’s got a pretty face and the eyes of a good man, eyes full of hope. He’ll get butchered. His father tried to talk him out of it, and they got into a fight. In the end, Georg beat him. You know he’s got a big hand. He beat him, and the boy still wants to go. With a swollen face, he yelled how he would be a fighter, and that we could do nothing. I’m desperate…”

“If you only knew how many killers have the eyes of a good man…” - grandmother left that hang in the air for a moment before continuing - “His blood is boiling. He’s young. That’s how things go. I’ve seen it firsthand. Talk, cry, yell, beat - it won’t help if a man wants to fight. That desire to kill, if one’s born with it, can’t be taken out. There’s only one thing you can do.”

“Anything. I’d do anything.” - she said, and some hope sparked in her eyes.

“You get a lamb, a young one.”

“A sacrifice? I’ve pleaded to the gods already, both ours and the dead one.”

“No, no. You get a lamb and tie it to a stick. Tie both its legs well and take it out in the yard. Then you get your son there and burn the lamb alive in front of him.”

“What?!”

No one was ever ready for my grandmother’s methods.

“Burn the lamb, burn it alive. In front of your son, he needs to watch.”

“What in the gods’ name would that do?!”

“Young lambs squeal like human babies. Have your son watch the whole thing, have him hear it from beginning to end. Killing is no beautiful business so hold him there if you have to. Hold his head against the fire, and don’t let him close his ears. If he’s got any sense left in him, he’ll take the sheep to the pasture the next morning and never bring up fighting again. If he does that, you don’t let that little pipsqueek anywhere near a sword, even if you have to tie him to the fence. But if he still wants to fight… You’re better off helping him fit that old armor. He may not have the face of a killer, but he’s got the heart of one.”

The woman stood there, speechless. She blinked, looking at my grandma, and tried to say something, but the words died off in her throat. She expected my grandmother to start laughing, tell her it was a joke, and give her a herb that would cool the child off. The way the old woman slowly and confidently described the deed that was to be done was both terrifying and admirable.

She sent the neighbor off, wished her good luck, and continued cooking yet another chicken. A day later, I heard the screams. It was horrible beyond anything you could imagine. If you think the dying yells of a man are a nightmare, this was gut-wrenching. I would have given anything to end it. I’d given my hearing away then and there.

“I’ll never forget the first time I heard a lamb dying.” - grandmother said, looking at the fireplace.

That’s two of us, grandma. That’s two of us.