"Getting Stronger"
65 Searing 122
The Palatium Umbrarum
Phocion had not been thrilled when his mother had tasked him with training his long, lost brother in the ancient art of Kineticism. The feelings surrounding the sudden foreign invasion of yet another blonde bastard for whom Cithæra bet over backwards were complicated to say the least. It had been hard enough growing up with Raithen, who seemed to be blessed by his lack of clear function in the family. The other Moonborn member of the family, their older sister Valæra, had been the first and was showered with the attention of an heir presumptive before Phocion was even born. It was frustrating that his quiet demeanour and dutiful attention to his responsibilities rendered him the easiest to overlook. Hardly a squeaky wheel, Phocion the Silver was rarely lubricated. Now that they were grown and he was beginning to resolve some of those old issues with the siblings he'd always known, here came another, younger brother who seemed to have a clear-cut purpose, but one about which he'd been forbidden any detail. It was confounding, to say the least. 65 Searing 122
The Palatium Umbrarum
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Still, the Silver elf was rational to a fault (perhaps one of the traits that made him so forgettable, he'd often mused) and he knew that his qualms were not born of this boy even if they'd been born with him. The sins of their mother seemed to haunt him, as well, and he realised that all the attention being thrust upon Arvælyn now was hardly enough to account for the time he'd spend alone and forsaken in savage, heathen realms. At first Phocion empathised with his plight, and then he sympathised for there were elements to the young elf's story with which he couldn't possibly relate. And he was thankful for that. He'd come to learn that the boy had starved, stolen and debased himself to survive, while he and the other scions of Phædryn basked in the luxury of palaces and villas. This knowledge, somehow, made the task of training him less burdensome.
They met in a private training hall at the Vigilia Argenti Prætorium- The Vastian name for the Silver Sentinel's headquarters in the Umbrium. Phocion had sent appropriate training garb ahead for Arvælyn to wear to their session. It was standard issue for Sentinels-in-Training. A simple, black jacket that was to be worn over bare skin, held closed by a belt and matching, loose-fitting trousers. The fabric was soft and breathable. It felt, to Arry, rather like fancy pyjamas or a simpler version of something that might be worn in a more formal setting in Kalzasi. He'd worn slippers for the trip through the halls, but seeing that his trainer was barefoot he removed them upon entering the room and left them near the door.
"Salve, Vigil." The golden boy offered meekly in Vastian.
"Good morrow, Arvælyn." The silver replied gently in Common, as he watched his half brother pad closer and step onto the mats that lined the centre of the chamber. "Your pædagogus speaks well of the work you've done thus far."
"Laetus sum hoc audire." Arry smiled faintly, "Ego-..." Phocion held up a hand to interrupt him.
"For the purposes of our lesson, we shall speak Common. I applaud your linguistic efforts, but for safety's sake it is best we conduct our discourse in a tongue in which we are both fluent. This is why I have been charged with educating you- Because I have mastered Common as well as Kinetics." He smiled a bit wryly. Arry suspected it might have been what Phocion considered a joke.
"As you wish, Præceptor." Arry inclined his head.
"How have you found your training thus far?"
"It is-... Interesting." Arry began, then hesitated to elaborate.
"Go on." Phocion gestured, "Be candid."
"Well... For my other two runes, I had to sort of... figure things out on my own. Finn said my Mesmer was reckless... raw. He had more of an education in it than I, but I excelled more quickly."
"Your ancestors were bred to bear multiple Cardinal Runes. If they failed to survive the threshold, it was considered good riddance to weak blood. You descend from a long line of powerful mages begot of gods. He descends from what? Farmers?"
"They're very nice, really. They actually-..." Again Phocion held up a halting hand, and Arry blushed.
"So, you taught yourself Mesmer. And the Masquerade?" His instructor prompted.
"Mostly self-taught as well, though I did have a bit of guidance from Aurin who carved my Rune." Phocion's silver white eyes darted to Arry's wrist.
"Ah yes. Mother spoke of that..." His eyes darted back to meet his younger half-brother's gaze, "And how did that compare to your studies in Kinetics?"
"The education was a bit, um... Well, rigid for my tastes? Terribly repetitive, as well." Arry wrinkled his nose, and Phocion actually chuckled.
"I can understand why you would find it so, catulus, but I assure you these practises are upheld because they are effective, efficient and far safer than the alternative. Surely they are not so lax in the North as to have failed to emphasise how very dangerous magic might be if practised recklessly?"
"It has been noted, Præceptor..." Arry conceded, thinking back to a few choice occasions- Not the least harrowing of which being in the midst of Finn's post-beating plight when Lyra had scolded him for his so-called abuse of Mesmer.
"But you disagree?" Phocion arched an eyebrow at the scepticism he saw in response to what he deemed a rather basic question. It did speak to some of what he'd seen back in Tertium, when the boy had lashed out against their mother with Mesmer- seeming to lose himself in his own Craft.
"I believe worlds bend to the whims of the worthy." Arry replied with no dearth of gravitas- As if a bit of his Mesmer were colouring the corners of the sentiment.
"'Mundus ad nutum dignis inclinabit.'" Phocion translated, "Aværys Eternal. Act 3 Scene 1." His smile was wan, "Are you certain you weren't raised in the True Faith?" He shook his head, "No matter. We will save the theological discussions for later- In the meanwhile, I would merely ask that you give yourself in to the process. There is a reason we do things this way. It may seem boring, repetitive, stuffy- But that is a small price to pay for the bounty of consummate knowledge. I would ask that you abide by the rules while you remain under my tutelage. Learn the rules so that you at least know when you're breaking them and it is a true and conscious choice. Now." Phocion extended his arm to the side, spreading his long, slender fingers and a quarterstaff flew from the rack along the wall directly into his grasp. "Let us begin to apply the basics of what you've learnt to combat."
Arry blinked,
"You want me to...? Oh, but I'm not a fighter. When violence threatens me, I use my other Runes as a deterent."
"A sound technique. I'm certain it served you quite well in realms with weaker mages, but what if your foe is another Master of the same Runes? What if he is shielded by wards that immunise him to your efforts? He might best you with a blade whilst you gawk in your confusion. Arm yourself, catulus."
Arry nodded firmly, and extended his hand toward the rack of staves, as Phocion had. Slowly, and quakingly one dislodged itself from the rack and made a ponderous journey toward his palm.
"You are thrice slain by now, Arvælyn. Come and let's put merit behind that bluster of yours!" Phocion grinned, taking a preparatory stance as Arry gripped his quarterstaff. "Heavier than it looks, eh?" His pale teacher taunted as he advanced.
Arry would leave the training hall sore and frustrated, but determined that he should not be so again on the morrow. He would practise on his own, and get Finn to teach him the basics beyond what Aurin had instilled. Arry may have been deft in some magics and in the stealthier arts of Spycraft, but as he'd managed to slip free of so many sticky situations, he'd also sidestepped the sort of martial training that Phocion seemed committed to providing.
He'd just come into a princely bit of privilege, and it was only now that he was truly realising that duty and risk were accessories to those boons. He'd wanted to live in luxury like a prince, but he'd never imagined himself at the head of an army unless it was as symbolic as it had been on stage at the Golden Peacock when he marched against the armies of Sol'Valen.
He would give himself wholly to this task, and Phocion would find an apt pupil in his golden, younger brother when next they met for a lesson.
