12th of Ymiden, 703 Arc
A young noble boy sat on a bench in a garden filled with roses and said nothing as he plucked the petals free. One by one he let them fall, until there was nothing but a thorny stem, and even then he cast it to the ground. A male voice was calling his name, but the little boy pretended not to hear, drawing his legs to his chest and burying his face in his knees.
The voice grew closer, “Andráska Venora! Where are you?” It didn't take long for the man to emerge, and his dark eyes looked around the garden until they finally rested on the young boy. “I've been looking for you!” Solomon declared, holding up his hand to reveal the two wooden swords in his hands, “Practice should have started twenty bits ago. Why weren't you in the yards?”
Andráska ignored him, feeling his lip quiver and he continued to hide his face.
'Strange,' Solomon thought, straightening up and taking on an air of authority, “C'mon then. No more games. Up you go.”
'Leave me alone,' Andráska silently pleaded, feeling his chest swell, “I don't want to practice today.”
Solomon paused in his approach. Andráska liked sword fighting. What was going on? “What's all this about?” he asked, moving towards the bench, “You never skip instruction.” Sure, he had heard that the boy ran off to avoid other things, but combat was one of his two loves. This sudden change of heart was alarming. And then Solomon seemed to notice the way the boy wouldn't look at him, and his brows furrowed. He reached for his arm, and felt him wince under his touch. His words were gentle, but coaxing, “Look at me.”
A long silence passed, and the face of the noble rose, revealing green eyes dull from crying and a wicked bruise decorating the side of his face. His pout was amplified by the split lip and bit of dried blood at the corner of his mouth. Andráska's face reddened from shame and he looked away as Solomon finally understood.
The instructor sighed, “Did your father do this?”
Andráska didn't want to say anything, afraid someone would hear and instead shrugged. He could still feel the red welts from the belt swollen and tender under the cotton fabric of his shirt. Solomon asked again, sterner this time and he answered softly, “...Yeah.”
“What else did he do?”
“Nothing.”
“Andráska.”
The boy squirmed, just wanting the day to be over, “Nothing.”
Solomon's patience was thinning and he tossed the swords on the ground, frustrated more with the situation than at the poor boy, “Damn it, Andráska. I'm trying to help you. Do not lie to me.”
Something in the words broke the emotional wall the boy had been building and he jumped up, yelling and angry at the idea of being pitied, “It doesn't matter 'cause you can't help!” he screamed, his eyes watering again, “This is all just a waste of time, because I'm a piece of shit that doesn't matter! None of this matters! Leave me alone!”
The outburst was so uncharacteristic from the usually happy student that Solomon stopped, realizing the mistake he had made at losing a small portion of his temper, and he noticed the fading marks on one of the boy's arms.
He shook his head, and motioned for the boy to return back to the bench and sat down,“Did he tell you that as well?” Solomon sighed and by the way he carried himself, he was frustrated at the whole ordeal. What could he do to truly help? He was a commoner who had just enough skill to qualify to train a noble born. It was hardly like he had much sway in the matter, “Sit down. I have a different lesson for you today.”
Truly Andras liked Solomon, and perhaps favored him as much as his music instructor. He was quiet and hesitant, but sat down nonetheless. Solomon collected his thoughts as Andraska wiped his eyes, and finally began:
”A very rich fortune teller came into marketplace and was foretelling people's future for a small price. Everyone loved this man and believed him, always lining up to listen to his advice. He was a leader of sorts, and the poor believed he was the one who could guide them.” Solomon was looking at the boys expression, and leaned back, lacing his fingers in his lap before continuing, “One day a man ran up in great haste announcing the the fortune tellers's door had been broken into: 'Sir! Your house is being robbed! Run quickly!' he said. And the fortune teller jumped up and ran home.”
“Well,” Solomon said, getting to his favorite part in the folk tale, “As the man was running home, his neighbor spotted him and laughed. He said, 'You there! You say you know the futures of others; how did you not foresee your own?”
Solomon smiled, pleased to see the boy was listening, “Do you know what the moral of this story is?” A rhetorical question that he quickly answered, “Just because someone seems to hold the truth, doesn't make it so, and it is wise to always know your own life before dictating that of others.”
Andráska was piecing together the lesson and surmised it as this: Solomon was telling him not to listen to Kaleb just because he was his father, or a baron. He had to seek truth for himself.
“Do you follow the seven?” Solomon asked, “Or the Immortals?”
The boy shrugged, “I don't know.”
Solomon cleared his throat, “I follow the immortals. Not a popular opinion around Rynmere, but I am originally from Rharne.” He could tell the boy about Ilaren, but her presence wasn't necessary at the moment, “Pier and Pre are sister who hold the domain of truth, equality, judgment, and lies. And so, if you do decide to follow the immortals... next time your father berates you, pray for wisdom. I think you'll find the truth, and it'll be more surprising than you think. You're a good kid, Venora.”
The instructor rose to his feet and looked at the swords for a moment, “Stay here. I'm going to go grab some shields. We're gonna work on offense today.” He began to walk away, leaving Andráska to think over everything he had said. Was it true that he shouldn't always listen to his father just because everyone else did? That maybe his father was a liar?
“Pier and Pre,” he whispered experimentally, knowing how his mother followed the seven and talk to the immortals could be sacrilegious, “My name is Andráska Venora.”
Praying felt silly, but something made him continue, and he tried to imagine who these women were, “Solomon says I should pray to you. That... maybe I've been told a lie. My father says...” he didn't really want to repeat it, but confessing might make him feel better, “That I don't matter. That... I am a thorn in his side. He says I am stupid and unteachable. I just... I don't know.”
The little boy slid off the bench and plucked two more flowers on from a nearby bush. One red rose. One white. “The ladies in the kitchen say I'm funny, and even though I'm not supposed to talk to them, I like them. They're nice, and sometimes they give me cookies.”
The words made the little boy pause and he began to use his logic to piece together the pieces. Other people liked him – in fact, Solomon said he was a good kid, and so did the older servants. Children liked him for the most part, except a few that made fun of his name, but truth be told, Andras didn't care for them much himself.
Maybe... maybe Solomon had been right? He should pay attention to more than just what his father said. Maybe he wasn't useless after all?
“I think I know the truth now,” he announced, a smile finally pulling at his solemn lips. It was a perfectly time discovery, because in that moment Solomon was returning, a small shield in hand.
“Not quite as big as a heater, but it should be a good start. You wear it like this, here.”
Solomon was eager to start his lesson, not only to make up for lost time, but hoping the exercise would chase away the boy’s doubts, “Shield fighting, and defending is all about strength and perception. You need to know when and how your opponent is going to strike, and position yourself in response.”
To demonstrate, he grabbed a wooden sword and took a step back from the boy, “I’m going to strike, I want you to try and move to block me. Good? Let’s begin.”
Just as he promised, Solomon threw his arm outward, striking from high, downward, and Andraska had to lift his shield above his head, absorbing the blow. Immediately an attack came towards his side, and then from above again. He lifted his arm, turned, and lifted again. His feet were moving involuntarily and while a bit clumsy, but the more they repeated the moves, the more familiar he was becoming. Muscle memory was forming.
The steady thump of the practice weapon and the shield began to soothe him, making him forget momentarily of the beating he had received earlier that day. He focused on his lesson, how to twist his body to deflect blows from different angles, and what various pressures felt like when slamming into him.
“I’m getting tired,” he admitted, his arm holding the shield buzzing from all the vibration, and exhausted. Even his shoulders felt sore and he was breathing heavy.
“Of course you are. You’re used to jumping out of the way, and striking. Getting hit repeatedly, even if you’re protected takes a lot more strength to endure. It drains you faster, but,” Solomon didn’t seem nearly as tired, “A good shield will always save your life if you know how to use it. A sword is meant to harm. A shield is meant to protect. Protecting is always the harder option, but is always the most rewarding.”
His instructor smiled, drilling the sword replica into the ground and patting his pupil on the shoulder, “You’re a good boy, Andraska….” Solomon’s dark eyes grew serious, and he gave a wistful sigh, “And a good student. Best one I’ve ever had. Praise Ethelynda.”
The praise cheered him up, and he was repeating the words before he fully understood them, “Praise Ethelynda.” He wondered which immortal this was, but he trusted his teacher and meant the words.
With a smile, Solomon ruffled the Andraska’s hair and tapped him on the chin, “Don’t let you’re the baron get you down.”
The two looked at each other for a moment before he snapped his fingers and straightened up as the noble scrambled into position. The tension had faded, but their bond remained, “Again.”
The voice grew closer, “Andráska Venora! Where are you?” It didn't take long for the man to emerge, and his dark eyes looked around the garden until they finally rested on the young boy. “I've been looking for you!” Solomon declared, holding up his hand to reveal the two wooden swords in his hands, “Practice should have started twenty bits ago. Why weren't you in the yards?”
Andráska ignored him, feeling his lip quiver and he continued to hide his face.
'Strange,' Solomon thought, straightening up and taking on an air of authority, “C'mon then. No more games. Up you go.”
'Leave me alone,' Andráska silently pleaded, feeling his chest swell, “I don't want to practice today.”
Solomon paused in his approach. Andráska liked sword fighting. What was going on? “What's all this about?” he asked, moving towards the bench, “You never skip instruction.” Sure, he had heard that the boy ran off to avoid other things, but combat was one of his two loves. This sudden change of heart was alarming. And then Solomon seemed to notice the way the boy wouldn't look at him, and his brows furrowed. He reached for his arm, and felt him wince under his touch. His words were gentle, but coaxing, “Look at me.”
A long silence passed, and the face of the noble rose, revealing green eyes dull from crying and a wicked bruise decorating the side of his face. His pout was amplified by the split lip and bit of dried blood at the corner of his mouth. Andráska's face reddened from shame and he looked away as Solomon finally understood.
The instructor sighed, “Did your father do this?”
Andráska didn't want to say anything, afraid someone would hear and instead shrugged. He could still feel the red welts from the belt swollen and tender under the cotton fabric of his shirt. Solomon asked again, sterner this time and he answered softly, “...Yeah.”
“What else did he do?”
“Nothing.”
“Andráska.”
The boy squirmed, just wanting the day to be over, “Nothing.”
Solomon's patience was thinning and he tossed the swords on the ground, frustrated more with the situation than at the poor boy, “Damn it, Andráska. I'm trying to help you. Do not lie to me.”
Something in the words broke the emotional wall the boy had been building and he jumped up, yelling and angry at the idea of being pitied, “It doesn't matter 'cause you can't help!” he screamed, his eyes watering again, “This is all just a waste of time, because I'm a piece of shit that doesn't matter! None of this matters! Leave me alone!”
The outburst was so uncharacteristic from the usually happy student that Solomon stopped, realizing the mistake he had made at losing a small portion of his temper, and he noticed the fading marks on one of the boy's arms.
He shook his head, and motioned for the boy to return back to the bench and sat down,“Did he tell you that as well?” Solomon sighed and by the way he carried himself, he was frustrated at the whole ordeal. What could he do to truly help? He was a commoner who had just enough skill to qualify to train a noble born. It was hardly like he had much sway in the matter, “Sit down. I have a different lesson for you today.”
Truly Andras liked Solomon, and perhaps favored him as much as his music instructor. He was quiet and hesitant, but sat down nonetheless. Solomon collected his thoughts as Andraska wiped his eyes, and finally began:
”A very rich fortune teller came into marketplace and was foretelling people's future for a small price. Everyone loved this man and believed him, always lining up to listen to his advice. He was a leader of sorts, and the poor believed he was the one who could guide them.” Solomon was looking at the boys expression, and leaned back, lacing his fingers in his lap before continuing, “One day a man ran up in great haste announcing the the fortune tellers's door had been broken into: 'Sir! Your house is being robbed! Run quickly!' he said. And the fortune teller jumped up and ran home.”
“Well,” Solomon said, getting to his favorite part in the folk tale, “As the man was running home, his neighbor spotted him and laughed. He said, 'You there! You say you know the futures of others; how did you not foresee your own?”
Solomon smiled, pleased to see the boy was listening, “Do you know what the moral of this story is?” A rhetorical question that he quickly answered, “Just because someone seems to hold the truth, doesn't make it so, and it is wise to always know your own life before dictating that of others.”
Andráska was piecing together the lesson and surmised it as this: Solomon was telling him not to listen to Kaleb just because he was his father, or a baron. He had to seek truth for himself.
“Do you follow the seven?” Solomon asked, “Or the Immortals?”
The boy shrugged, “I don't know.”
Solomon cleared his throat, “I follow the immortals. Not a popular opinion around Rynmere, but I am originally from Rharne.” He could tell the boy about Ilaren, but her presence wasn't necessary at the moment, “Pier and Pre are sister who hold the domain of truth, equality, judgment, and lies. And so, if you do decide to follow the immortals... next time your father berates you, pray for wisdom. I think you'll find the truth, and it'll be more surprising than you think. You're a good kid, Venora.”
The instructor rose to his feet and looked at the swords for a moment, “Stay here. I'm going to go grab some shields. We're gonna work on offense today.” He began to walk away, leaving Andráska to think over everything he had said. Was it true that he shouldn't always listen to his father just because everyone else did? That maybe his father was a liar?
“Pier and Pre,” he whispered experimentally, knowing how his mother followed the seven and talk to the immortals could be sacrilegious, “My name is Andráska Venora.”
Praying felt silly, but something made him continue, and he tried to imagine who these women were, “Solomon says I should pray to you. That... maybe I've been told a lie. My father says...” he didn't really want to repeat it, but confessing might make him feel better, “That I don't matter. That... I am a thorn in his side. He says I am stupid and unteachable. I just... I don't know.”
The little boy slid off the bench and plucked two more flowers on from a nearby bush. One red rose. One white. “The ladies in the kitchen say I'm funny, and even though I'm not supposed to talk to them, I like them. They're nice, and sometimes they give me cookies.”
The words made the little boy pause and he began to use his logic to piece together the pieces. Other people liked him – in fact, Solomon said he was a good kid, and so did the older servants. Children liked him for the most part, except a few that made fun of his name, but truth be told, Andras didn't care for them much himself.
Maybe... maybe Solomon had been right? He should pay attention to more than just what his father said. Maybe he wasn't useless after all?
“I think I know the truth now,” he announced, a smile finally pulling at his solemn lips. It was a perfectly time discovery, because in that moment Solomon was returning, a small shield in hand.
“Not quite as big as a heater, but it should be a good start. You wear it like this, here.”
Solomon was eager to start his lesson, not only to make up for lost time, but hoping the exercise would chase away the boy’s doubts, “Shield fighting, and defending is all about strength and perception. You need to know when and how your opponent is going to strike, and position yourself in response.”
To demonstrate, he grabbed a wooden sword and took a step back from the boy, “I’m going to strike, I want you to try and move to block me. Good? Let’s begin.”
Just as he promised, Solomon threw his arm outward, striking from high, downward, and Andraska had to lift his shield above his head, absorbing the blow. Immediately an attack came towards his side, and then from above again. He lifted his arm, turned, and lifted again. His feet were moving involuntarily and while a bit clumsy, but the more they repeated the moves, the more familiar he was becoming. Muscle memory was forming.
The steady thump of the practice weapon and the shield began to soothe him, making him forget momentarily of the beating he had received earlier that day. He focused on his lesson, how to twist his body to deflect blows from different angles, and what various pressures felt like when slamming into him.
“I’m getting tired,” he admitted, his arm holding the shield buzzing from all the vibration, and exhausted. Even his shoulders felt sore and he was breathing heavy.
“Of course you are. You’re used to jumping out of the way, and striking. Getting hit repeatedly, even if you’re protected takes a lot more strength to endure. It drains you faster, but,” Solomon didn’t seem nearly as tired, “A good shield will always save your life if you know how to use it. A sword is meant to harm. A shield is meant to protect. Protecting is always the harder option, but is always the most rewarding.”
His instructor smiled, drilling the sword replica into the ground and patting his pupil on the shoulder, “You’re a good boy, Andraska….” Solomon’s dark eyes grew serious, and he gave a wistful sigh, “And a good student. Best one I’ve ever had. Praise Ethelynda.”
The praise cheered him up, and he was repeating the words before he fully understood them, “Praise Ethelynda.” He wondered which immortal this was, but he trusted his teacher and meant the words.
With a smile, Solomon ruffled the Andraska’s hair and tapped him on the chin, “Don’t let you’re the baron get you down.”
The two looked at each other for a moment before he snapped his fingers and straightened up as the noble scrambled into position. The tension had faded, but their bond remained, “Again.”
