BEGINNING

THE BEGINNING

It was a bitterly cold winter in 2001 in Ankara, Turkey. Not just the city center, but the surrounding towns were blanketed in snow. I was stationed at the Gendarmerie school on a high hill as a lieutenant in the army, and the snowfall here was unlike anything I had seen before. After my shift, the shuttle service resembled a slow-moving train, delayed by the heavy snowfall. I gazed out of the window from the officer's branch building, pencil poised above an open notebook on my lap. That evening, inspiration struck me.

I closed the notebook without a single mark on its pages. The notebook's cover matched the uniform I wore, as was the style for officers. The army tailors had crafted this fabric notebook cover for me, and I cherished it like an accessory, carrying it everywhere. It was within these pages that I sketched numerous figures: dragons, warriors, and knights.

As I looked out at the line of shuttles waiting in the snow, I reaffirmed my decision to stay at the garrison rather than renting a house in the city. I strode through the quiet refectory, passing tables on my way out, in search of some rest.

The harsh winter eventually gave way to spring, a season that promised outdoor work. I led fifty soldiers under my command and a truck filled with pine trees, along with a fellow lieutenant who was a forest engineer. We were tasked with planting these trees in areas designated by our superiors, and he marked the best spots for us. I directed the soldiers in the tree-planting efforts, and at the end of the day, the last tree on the truck became mine, a gesture from the soldiers who insisted, "This tree is yours."

One day, I reopened my notebook and sketched a towering warrior surrounded by a group of mercenaries. Then, I began to write, narrating the scene in a one-page explanation. I named the characters with names that came to mind in that moment. A smile crept across my face as I closed the notebook.

The following day, I opened it again, attempting to draw once more, but my creative muse steered me in a different direction. I decided to write, creating a continuation of the previous day's page instead of drawing. "There isn't a specific topic," I reasoned, but I pressed on. Suddenly, ideas began to flow through my mind. I didn't start with the first sentence of the story; instead, I wrote a piece that seemed like it might be the first of many to come.

It was dusk, and the sky was painted dark blue and pink. Soon, it would be dark. Small snowflakes began falling, and that was when Arates stood up on the hill where he was on watch. He began running towards the others, shouting. Then a giant silhouette appeared between the rocks, at least four people tall. The giant mentioned in Thrames’ story was standing in front of their eyes. Grunting in incomprehensible language, the giant lunged towards them, his face still clear in the light of dusk. He had hate-filled light blue eyes. He was wearing a helmet with long horns and a fur that partially covered his body. It would have taken two humans to lift the oxhead-sized mace in his hand. He was upon them in an instant. He lifted his mace and swung it towards Arates. 

This process continued for about a month, and by the end of it, the main story of the book had taken shape. It seemed that I had a book in the making. I wrote with excitement, occasionally interspersing drawings. When my army service concluded, I had two notebooks filled with my writings. After returning home, starting a new job, and getting married, those notebooks waited for me on a shelf for two years.