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| Details |
| Author: | Luridel |
| Summary: | There is a shrine atop Frostblade Peak. Rumor has it that meditating there will cleanse one of one's inner turmoil. Kyris Lysander makes the journey. ~1300 words. |
| Rating: | T for Teen |
Fort Wildervar sits in the shadow of Frostblade Peak. Father would have dispatched scouts to map it out by now. Learn the trails and pitfalls. Take stock of potential threats.
Kyris knows there are some kind of mountain rams. There are yeti, giant horned and furred behemoths that call the place their home. Much further up the path, there are wayward air elementals, creatures of howling wind. And supposedly, at the peak of the mountain, there's a shrine.
Ally would want to know everything, if she were here. Who named Frostblade Peak? Does it have any historical significance? She would want to speak to the yeti, find out how intelligent they are. Do yeti have a language?
Father would want him to determine whether or not the yeti could be reasoned with. Whether they would pose a threat to Fort Wildervar. Whether anything should be done about them. Whether they could be convinced into an alliance.
There's a line in the Manual, a relevant quote, something about knowing where your neighbors stand. Kyris doesn't remember it.
Ally would be able to recite the entire Manual from memory, if she were here. His genius sister, too smart for her own good and always so damn smug about it.
The first yeti Kyris encounters on his way up the mountain is three or four times Kyris' height, and it roars as it charges. There's no language, no negotiation, just an unambiguous declaration of war. About damn time. Kyris settles into his skin.
This is where he shines. The flow of movement, the certainty of his steps, his cuts. He finds that center of stillness in his mind, the anger and resentment evaporating easily.
Kyris fights.
There is a shrine atop Frostblade Peak. Rumor has it that meditating there will cleanse one of one's inner turmoil.
It's a long walk up the mountain, and Kyris cannot be like the frosthorn rams which walk up and down a near-vertical surface in the snow. He takes the narrow path marked only by dirt beneath the partially-melted snow. The path winds back and forth, and the raging elemental winds churn and batter at him, swirling vortexes like miniature tornadoes. Kyris cuts through the ones that stand in his path, slicing their binding bracers free and letting them fall into the snow, empty.
There is no inner turmoil, not in these moments.
Kyris fights.
Father would have strongly disapproved of Kyris traversing the mountain alone. Theris wouldn't have made it this far. Ally would probably have paid the rental fee for a gryphon and just flown directly to the summit.
Coming over the final rise, picking his way carefully over icy ground, Kyris sees the altar. It is made of some sort of stone (Ally would know what kind), carved along the side with flowing swirls that resemble an artistic rendition of wind.
Mother would have loved to see it.
Snow has gathered around the base of the altar, but there is none atop its surface. The air feels heavy with power.
Kyris kneels in the snow and ice in front of the altar, resting his sword in its scabbard on his lap.
That internal center of stillness is hard for him to reach up here. The wind batters at his hair, bites at his nose and cheeks, stings his eyes until he closes them. His thoughts jostle around each other, demanding his attention.
You are never going to be Kieran Lysander. You don't even want to be.
Ally would know, Ally would remember, Ally would know.
He's married, he has two children, you'll never be to him what he is to you.
Your little brother is dead and you don't miss him.
They follow you out of fear and obligation, not loyalty.
Kyris feels the sensation of being watched and his eyes open in time to catch the movement of a shadow– he casts his body to the side, into the snow, bringing his sword in its scabbard up to deflect a blow from… his own sword, but darker, cast in shadow. And the figure wielding it - Kyris himself, a semi-translucent form.
Kyris fights.
Kyris and his inner turmoil might have been evenly matched, had they begun their duel on equal footing. They are not evenly matched now. His inner turmoil, his shadow-self, has taken full advantage of his surprise, and now Kyris struggles to get back on the offensive.
The shadow-self's mouth moves, and Kyris hears his own voice in his ears, a sinister whisper almost indistinguishable from the wind. "You think meditation will be enough to defeat me? You think you can banish your inner turmoil so easily? I see you for the short-sighted fool you are."
Kyris does not have the breath to spare to engage this creature in conversation. He cannot find his center. His shadow-self is pushing its advantage the same way Kyris himself would have.
"Why can't everything just be simple?" the voice mocks. There's a sneer on its face that Kyris recognizes. He has seen it many times before, in the mirror or on his father's face.
If this had been a fair fight, Kyris might have enjoyed the experience. But the ice slips underneath his feet in a way that it does not do beneath the feet of his shadow-self, and he cannot find his center. This is not an enjoyable fight.
"It's not fair," says his shadow-self in an exaggeratedly whiny tone. "You cheated." A darker tone, a snap to its voice: "The world isn't fair, boy."
Kyris fights.
The point of the shadowy blade finds his throat and Kyris feels that it is just as sharp as his own. "Yield," says his shadow-self. "You cannot get rid of me. You cannot meditate yourself into being a better person. We're sick. There's something wrong with us. And we're inseparable."
Kyris realizes that he told no one where he was going when he left Fort Wildervar. It's possible he was seen trying to climb the mountain, but who would think to look for him? More likely, his body will be found by the next individual with the arrogance to face this climb on their own. Or, perhaps, the next group of people come to meditate together, a supporting collective of friends or comrades.
He looks into the eyes of his shadow-self and sees a cold indifference. Does his inner turmoil not care whether Kyris lives or dies?
But then, who would?
Father would care for the loss of his investment, his son, but not for the loss of Kyris. Mother would care, wouldn't she? But Mother cares about everyone. It wouldn't be personal, not like Theris. Ally probably wouldn't care.
Would Amadeus care?
"Yield," howls the wind from the mouth of his shadow-self. "Yield before you die for the sake of your own damned pride."
Kyris yields.
Kyris cannot feel his body, but he opens his eyes and looks into the face of the most perfect man in the world.
It is a scarred face, an old wound across his chin and another one that slices through his eyebrow, but still perfect, to Kyris. Amadeus is watching him with eyes as blue as something very blue (Ally would know what) and a furrowed brow that makes Kyris' hands itch to smooth out the concern he sees there. Or it would, if he could feel his hands. He has no awareness of where his hands are, and that should be troubling, except that Amadeus Aspenwood is here.
The officer Kyris was supposed to be.
His friend. His only friend. His best friend.
"I worry about you, Kyris," Amadeus says, soft and sad, looking at Kyris as though he matters.
There, there is the center, that inner stillness, that calm clarity.
I love you, Kyris thinks, but the words no longer burn a hole in his throat. He can hold them deep inside himself, in that stillness, clear and true.
Kyris opens his eyes into the stinging cold air. He is kneeling in the ice, his sheathed sword across his lap. A shadow of himself kneels at his side.
Together, the two of them rise.
"We aren't going to fight again, are we?" Kyris asks.
"No," is the whisper on the wind, and when he blinks, his shadow-self is gone.