(1865-08-28) Steps On the Path
Steps On the Path
Summary: Viscount Jaren Cassomir reflects on past, present, and future, and comes to an important decision.
Date: 08/28/1865 IE
Related: Pretty much everything Jaren's been involved in, plus his entire background.
NPCs: {$npc}
Players:
Jaren  

Viscount Jaren Cassomir drew Winterthorn from its scabbard, and setting the latter aside, he moved to the empty patch of ground in the training yard just outside Aveyron Castle. It would be his last time here for the forseeable future. Since the attempt on the Princesses' life, it had been largely empty here, as most of the guards and cavaliers were busy elsewhere. A few were about, but they seemed occupied with their own affairs, and while Jaren had a contingent of his own men and a couple of the Arkanin soldiers that had grown friendly with some of his own along this journey, they were there to protect him, not to spar with him, though he could've ordered some of them to it if he wished. Normally, he might have lamented the lack of sparring partners…indeed he did lament that he had managed to do so very little of it while he was here. He would have enjoyed testing himself against the Blue Cavaliers, or even Princess Atreis. Ah well…perhaps another time.

He began to move through the forms of the sword, the movements so ingrained in him that he scarcely need think about them. Body and blade working in harmony, feet placed ever-so-precisely as he moved from form-to-form. How many times had he taken these steps? Sir Raymund had made him repeat them nigh-endlessly when he was a squire. Not just on practice yard grounds, either. On incline and decline. On the sands of the shore and the dirt of freshly-tilled fields. Up to his knees in surf or the waters of a rushing stream. On rain-slicked stones or ankle-deep mud. One time, even on the deck of a ship in the midst of the rolling tides of a storm. Sir Raymund had ever found creative ways to make the simple task of working the forms more challenging, and he punished every mistake, every time. Never with bruises…Jaren took enough of those in sparring, at least early on…but with labor, or exercise. Praise had been sparse, but treasured when it came…Jaren was accustomed to such, as his father too had only rarely spoken with pride on any of his sons, though he did not denigrate them, either.

Many fighters worked through the forms in a set sequence. It was rote. Jaren had long since been taught otherwise. He moved through the forms as they came to him, often stringing together sequences that would seem unorthodox to those familiar with them, with forms of transition passed through so quickly they barely materialized at all. That too had been Raymund's influence. Strike in ways that were not expected. Do not let your opponents anticipate you, and above all, remain balanced. Physical balance was not what Jaren sought in the familiarity of the forms, though.

"The man who becomes predictable is the man who ends up dead, boy."

Raymund's words came to the forefront of Jaren's thoughts as Winterthorn continued to thrust and slash the air around him and his feet continued their dance.

"The man who cannot accept change is the man whom the world leaves behind."

Change. So inescapable. Something that couldn't be fought with a blade, or even necessarily should be fought. Four years ago he had been a landless noble knight with few prospects beyond an honorable career as a Royal Lancer. Now he was betrothed to a Princess of Aequor and the Viscount of a new County. His family had changed too.

Raelyn was colder now, even if less so with with him. The blood she had spilled had left its' mark. No…not the blood she had spilled, the blood she had seen spilled by the Thorn's invaders. She had the eyes of a killer, and laughed less, and this saddened him even as he could not deny pride in her skill and accomplishments. She had been forced to play the mother more so than the sister, yet she was still young. How much of her own desires and hopes had she been forced to set aside for her family?

Henric had never fully healed from the loss of their parents, particularly their mother, and in assuming that Henric simply needed time and space for the wound to heal, Jaren had possibly kept it fresh far longer than should have been permitted, and that was but one of the unintended wrongs he had visited upon his brother. He had made steps to try to remedy this…but would this betrothal throw them back to where they had been? Henric would do his duty, Jaren had no doubt of that, but he still hoped that his brother could find some measure of his own happiness, and that they could again find the bond of brothers they had shared when Henric first squired for him. Hope warred with worry on that score.

And then there was Emilia…now acting in his stead as ruler of Ironhold. The fear that he felt was not that Emilia held authority…for all that had been taken from her, her mind was still sharper than most, and for all her eccentricities she had listened intently to the advice and teachings of the Master Steward Melisande had sent to assist him. No, his fear was mingled with shame that she might be better at the job than he was. Still, that would be a good thing, he judged, for it might help her see that she still had worth to their family, and potentially to others. She had been somewhat more withdrawn than usual prior to his departure. He would need to speak with her when he returned. And he would need to speak with Sirrah, to see if any progress had been made on helping to make his sister whole again.

Would there be time for such things though? Events felt like they were overtaking him. Followers of the Thorn again in Galenthia. Someone had tried to murder his Queen, and he had not been there to protect her. He should not blame himself…he was, after all, dispatched on duties in her name…but it was still another change in the long list of them. A painful sign that for all they cared for and trusted each other, Jaren would likely never again be able to share the joys of the quiet and simple moments with her that had been commonplace in her youth. She had grown up, and he had grown apart. He had long since accepted that she was a woman grown, but he knew that the mantle of secrecy he had assumed when joining the Vigil would ever mark a distance between them. He was not sure if he should feel ashamed or not that the veil between himself and "Lissa" was every bit as painful as the one between himself and his closest blood-kin.

And now he would have to decide if that wall of secrets would extend to his bride, as well. A bride he barely knew. Who barely knew him, and by oaths sworn well before they had ever met would possibly never truly know him. He knew this was why he had avoided marriage for so long. He was not sure if he could reconcile giving a wife the trust she deserved with the secrets he was sworn to keep. It was unfair to her. It was not a good foundation upon which to build a life. Alessa seemed a lovely young woman, and he had little doubt that the people of Ironhold would warm to her more quickly than they might imagine, but….

No. This would not be the way. Sirrah had told him he could trust his own discretion. If change was inevitable, then perhaps it was time to effect some of it himself. When he returned to Ironhold, some of those that deserved to know the truth would be told. His family. Melisande. When they were finally wed, Alessa would join them.

"Every man has a breaking point, Jaren.  
Pile enough stones on the shoulders of even the strongest, and eventually they will buckle.  
You have to know your limits.  
Sometimes we can surpass them for a little while, but carry too many stones for too long and eventually all you're going to have to show for it 
are bad knees and regrets."

Jaren smiled at this memory of Raymund's words. Why had he forgotten this lesson so completely in the past few years?

He could not afford to let his burdens crush him. He could not afford to be at war within himself when a very real war threatened without. His family, his Queen, and his Kingdom would need their Champion at his best. And their Champion would need them, even if they didn't know it.

His steps finally came to a halt, with Winterthorn held in a defensive position. He panted in the cool morning air, his forelocks matted on his brow with sweat. How long had he been at it? He couldn't really recall, but it didn't matter. He felt…balanced again.

For now, the steps might have paused, but for the first time in what seemed like half a lifetime, the path before him seemed clear.

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