Origin of a Bodyguard

(Lucian’s Story)

By Lady Tempest

The morning sky had yet to brighten with dawn. Dark, dusty clouds seeped over a cold, fading moon. A lone figure trudged up the steep mountain path, leading a horse pulling a small, loaded cart. He clasped his plain brown cloak closed to keep out the chill. Though the scent of summer may have saturated the early morning air, its warmth had yet to follow.

The traveler approached a simple large wooden door set securely in a strong stone wall. On the door, an ornament, a winged man holding a sword upright between the circular meeting of his wings, hung like a silent iron guardian. He pushed back the hood of his cloak. Grasping the ornament, raising it mere inches from it's resting place, he knocked. The sound disturbed the calm pre-dawn air like thunder. Mere seconds later a tiny slat slid aside, and two alert eyes peered through the opening, then disappeared. A shuffling noise and a clank later, the thick door creaked open.

He tugged the horse through the huge opening and stopped several yards past the threshold. The door was shut and secured behind him. As he turned to face the other man, he was met by a bow, hands pressed palm to palm, and returned the show of reverence.

“Rasjura, How fared your travels?” The second man asked quietly as they both rose.

Rasjura urged the horse to the small stable a short distance away, right of the monastery's entrance and tied the reins to a sturdy post. “Mostly uneventful, Yasha. However, Lars will be disappointed.” He moved to the back of the cart. Yasha followed. “Iron is in short supply this month. He'll have to be less ambitious in his weaponsmithing for a while.”

“He'll just be more creative. There's nothing like a challenge to stir his inspiration.” Yasha's lips eased into a grin.

“True enough.” Rasjura smiled as he grabbed a few bundles and tossed them to the other man, who unhesitantly caught them.

Yasha held his burden patiently, waiting for Rasjura to finish gathering his own load before heading to the storehouse. “You said 'Mostly uneventful'. How so?”

“At the inn I was given an 'item' not on the list.” Reaching back into the cart he gingerly scooped another bundle, blanket-wrapped and nestled snuggly at the center, and cradled it securely in his arms. “Ander had his daughter take care of him knowing one of us would drop by any day.”

He brushed aside part of the blanket in his arms to reveal a small child. Bright pale blue eyes blinked calmly from under a crown of soft sun-gold hair. “He told me the boy had been left, alone, in one of his rooms two weeks ago. No idea who his parents were or who left him.”

Yasha adjusted the sacks in his arms and touched a hand gently to the tiny golden head. “He's a mere baby. Who could do such a thing?” The toddler stared noiselessly at the two men, raising a tiny fist to rub sleepy blue eyes. “Quiet one.”

“Yes. I have yet to hear him cry. Concerns me. The entire trip back he lay in the cart without making a sound. Almost forgot he was there.” Rasjura shifted the silent bundle to one arm and grabbed a sack from the cart. He turned and started toward the storehouse. Yasha, snatching an extra load, stayed in step next to him.

“Is the child ill?”

“No. I examined him and he's fine, no small thanks to Ander I'm certain. He said when cleaning one of the rooms, his daughter found the boy, curled up on the bed, sucking his thumb, and he looked like he hadn't been fed for two or three days, at the least.”

Yasha shook his head and growled. “That is unconscionable.”

“What is worse, the child never made a sound. Had the room still been paid for they would have never known.”

“Is he mute?”

“Not that I can tell. “

Yasha paused as they reached the simple wooden storehouse, nudging aside its sliding door. “Take him to Galen, right away. I'll take care of the supplies.”

************

10 Years later:

************

Lucian strode to the practice-yard, the dewy air of pre-dawn kissing his skin. He grabbed a slender staff from the weapon rack, shifting it in his hands to judge its weight and balance. Satisfied, he grasped it at the center and began the forms he had been taught. He preferred staff forms to the other weapons he had been shown. They were more graceful and physically challenging. He moved through each with the fluid beauty of an exotic dance, made more graceful by his tall, slender build. His toned muscles flowed through each exercise with the ease and strength of one much older than his eleven years.

But he had worked hard to attain such skill. Burying himself in the arts since he was old enough to be taught. None of the other Initiates showed more discipline or determination. And he was hated for it.

Not openly. The masters and teachers wouldn't have stood for that. Initiates were taught to respect their comrades. Anger and jealousy had no place at the monastery. To master those and all other emotions made one a better warrior, a better guardian. But that didn't mean they didn't exist, they just were controlled.

And no Initiate controlled his better than Lucian. Which was truly why the others hated him. “Cold,” they would say in angry whispers. “Unapproachable, distant. As human as a stone statue.” But for him it wasn't so much an issue of control, rather existence. For him emotions did not exist. Should not exist.

It wasn't until the sun peeked from the horizon, it's warm light catching in the boy's golden hair, that he ceased. Leaning on the staff, his soft cheek brushing against it, he gazed at the coloring sky. Rose, magenta, and lavender hazed the wispy clouds that snuggled the bright golden sun. It was a beautiful morning. A beauty lost on the cold blue eyes glittering in the growing light. For Lucian, such a majestic scene meant he only had half an hour of practice left before breakfast.

“Initiate Lucian,” a young voice called behind him. The boy turned slowly to meet the dark-haired youth stalking towards him. His body registered no sign of surprise at the interruption, as though he had known the other boy had been there all along. Which he had.

His face an image of gracefully carved stone, his lips parted subtly in greeting. “Initiate Teras.”

“Do you ever sleep? You're always out here before anyone else.” The boy narrowed his dark green eyes in a cross between mild irritation and amazement.

Lucian blinked, golden lashes sliding over blue ice. “I do what I must.”

Teras sighed, as if he had expected such an answer.

Lucian glanced at the ever-lightening sky, his grip on the staff tightening. His calm gaze fell back to Teras. “If that is all, I must return to my practice.” His voice was a whisper, like floating golden leaves in the chill of autumn.

“Actually, I was thinking we could practice together. You want to spar?” Lucian almost missed the quick flash of anger in the green eyes. If he hadn't witnessed it so many times before in so many others, he would have.

But Lucian was always ready, even eager for any challenge. And he knew that his opponents had a flaw he never would. A flaw that made them vulnerable, made them weak, made them reckless. Emotion.

***

Lucian lay on the ground, a thick dusting of dirt dulling his pale hair. Teras' hard, wood sword pressed firmly at his throat. He calmly looked up at the dark-haired boy looming over him, patiently waiting for him to claim victory.

Teras' brows wrinkled in frustration. “I have beaten you. Doesn’t that bother you?!” he muttered.

“You have showed me where my skill is weak, “Lucian replied blandly. “I will learn from this.”

The boy's green eyes widened, his irritation only faintly masked. He increased the pressure on Lucian's throat. “Dammit! Don't you feel anything?! Anything?!”

Lucian stared at the other initiate. “No.” At Teras' agitated growl, he added, “Should I?”

Teras withdrew the sword from his throat. “Yes!” Teras mumbled as he stormed off to breakfast, dropping the wooden sword into the weapon rack on his way.

Lucian climbed to his feet, shaking the dust from his hair. He never would understand why most of the other students got so emotional. Surely they had enough discipline to keep themselves under control. If they didn't, the Masters wouldn't allow them to progress in their training. Gathering his staff, he stole a glimpse at the morning sky. A bell clanged with a deep resonance through the monastery. He would have to wait to work through his newfound knowledge. He strode to the weapon rack and almost reverently placed the staff in its place, then followed the path his fellow student had left by moments before. Breakfast called.