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The Silver on the Hearth

Clarenthia

Establishing Nation
Joined
May 4, 2010
Messages
1,148
Capital
Alaghan
Nick
Jurzidentia
26 May, 1957
Sharjah, Keshinwar


Nasrullah Durrani dabbed the napkin to his lips and placed it down on the table in front of him.

“I am grateful you took the time out of your day to get lunch with me today,” Nasrullah stated “These days it is so rare for us to set time aside.”

“Forgive me,” Hayat Arsala replied “I know I should make more time. However, I…well…have been keeping a secret from you that I think I am ready to share.”

Nasrullah raised his brow. He had known Hayat for more than fifteen years and he was not the kind of man to keep secrets. He never hid information from anyone, he was never dishonest. The sheer abnormality of the sentence caught Nasrullah off guard. So much so that the facial expression gave Hayat all the response he needed.

“My Nasrullah,” he began, chuckling “Do not look so concerned! It is a surprise, a good thing. I have wanted to tell you for a long time now, but I’ve kept it to myself. I had to make sure it was the right time and that we would have plenty of time to talk afterwards.”

“What is it, Hayat?” Nasrullah asked, not dropping his concern.

“Well,” Hayat smiled “I met you fifteen years ago – today, even – if you recall. I saw a light in your eye the day I offered you the internship and that light never died. Every day you open the museum, I see it again. It’s a kind of passion you don’t normally see in people.”

“Of course,” Nasrullah answered “Working for the museum has been the greatest honor of my life. I cannot help but smile every day.”

“I know,” Hayat answered “That is why I am offering it to you. I’ve been at this for thirty years, my friend, and it is time for me to enjoy my older years. I am retiring and I am offering my position to you. The National Museum of Jurzani History – it is yours.”

Nasrullah was speechless. There were no words that could adequately express his gratitude – and he knew several words of the ancient Alghari language.

“Of course, it does technically require an official appointment from Alaghan, but I cannot imagine that a simple letter and a phone call perhaps cannot get that done. Prime Minister Farrukh is a busy man these days, but he does like to take the time to tour the museum, when his schedule permits.”

“I cannot, will not, be able to thank you for this,” Nasrullah finally stuttered out – to Hayat’s laughter.

“Of course you will!” Hayat answered “I put my whole life into that museum. I would die for that museum. All I ask of you is that you keep it going, you maintain it, you spread all its wealth and knowledge about the history of our people. That, Nasrullah, is a greater thanks than anything you’ll ever be able to give me.”

The two men smiled at one another, got up from their table and paid the bill. Hayat did not stop talking the entire walk back to the museum and Nasrullah attempted to truly comprehend every word, but that was difficult as he couldn’t stop thinking of the kind of responsibility that had been placed on his shoulders.

“How can you possibly provide for a family looking at ancient rocks!” his father barked at him when Nasrullah told him he wanted to work at a museum, that he had a passion for history “I did not move to this cesspool for you to go after such stupid dreams!”

His father was always the inspirational type.

While Nasrullah was confident his father would never truly care, this was the epitome of success in the museum world – for whatever that is worth. The National Museum of Jurzani History was the first of a string of museums that had been planned across the country to cultivate, preserve, and celebrate the history, present, and future of the Jurzani nation. It was a free museum, not designed to turn a profit, but simply in place to teach any and all what it means to be a Jurzani. To teach them the pride they should feel having been born in these lands.

Before long, Nasrullah had arrived at the courtyard of the National Museum. He looked at the fountain, the palm trees, the children running and playing, and the giant, gold Court of Arms that was hung above the main entrance. He felt such a strong sense of pride, of belonging.

“Now is only the beginning,” Nasrullah said, entering the museum.

He took a quick detour to the exhibit dedicated to the Ancient Alghari Civilization – the namesake of Alaghan and the firs recorded civilization within the Jurzan. The artifacts in this room were thousands of years old and, more likely than not, had a story to tell that no one had yet quite cracked. While strolling through the exhibit, Nasrullah noticed a young man standing before the Amin Tablet, his favorite artifact.

“Now this,” Nasrullah began “Now this is a treasure.”

The young man turned to him and smiled.

“This is the Amin Tablet. It contains the most complete versions of the Alghari Language. It has been used to translate virtually every other written text we have from the Alghari. It has gone such a long way to unlocking the history and story of our ancestors. Invaluable, truly.”

“What does it say?” the young man asked.

“It honors the Gods, talks about their unrelenting protection from evil. We believe it was used as a way of expressing the greatness of the Alghari Gods to other civilizations,” Nasrullah replied “You have to wonder, when they wrote it, did they even stop to think this rock – that we have no reason to believe is special in and of itself – would serve as the basis of ancient academia?”

“I haven’t thought of it.” The young man answered, prompting turning around and walking toward the exit, Nasrullah’s eyes followed him as he walked away. He placed his hand on the glass casing of an ancient statute from the Alghari civilization.

“Oh, if you could please not touch that,” Nasrullah immediately interjected.

“Where are your gods now?” the young man asked, throwing his backpack to the floor.

The last thing Nasrullah saw was a deafening bang, an intense heat, and a blinding light.
 
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