Upon hearing the tone his brother had taken, Virion had taken a seat. Cyran was still sat waiting for his dinner to be serve when Wyn finally noticed him. The older mans face softened, "Hello little one, it has certainly been a while," he said.
"It has Uncle Wyn, but I am 47 now so you have to stop calling me little one. I can forgive you if you have any more stories of your patrols to tell me," Cyran leaned forward, his eyes becoming inquisitive. His Uncle chuckled softly to himself. He was always a calm mannered man for as long as Cyran could remember him. Whilst his father Virion was loud, boisterous and amiable, Wyn was calm, collected and reserved.
"I'm sorry little one, old habits die hard you see. As for my grand adventures, I am afraid they will have to wait for another time. Besides, you have a big day tomorrow," he replied, gesturing to his brother sat beside him. Virion asked for Cyran to take his dinner and retire for the evening, much to his protest. Before his parents finally closed the door to his room, Cyran could make our the words "North east," and "necessary preparations."
He awoke the next morning feeling the aches of yesterday flare to life anew. Clamouring painfully out of bed with a fire that could not be extinguished, Cyran made his way downstairs to find only his mother in the kitchen. Asking Eleanor after Virion had him learn that after his father's chat with Wyn, the two men left in a rush and that he would be busy this day. "He did say he would be back before you leave for your selection. And on that note," Eleanor patted a stool next to her, "shirt off and sit."
Confused, Cyran did as he was told. He had learned many years ago how useless arguing with his mother was. Wincing, he stripped the bed shirt and sat under Eleanors scrutiny. "Oh my baby! They really did hurt you," she cried as she saw the bruises adorning Cyran's torso. "Wait right here, I have just the thing," she said, a little more upbeat than before. Gathering different pastes from around the kitchen, she mixed some concoction together before coming back to Cyran's side.
Pasting the mix onto his bruises, he found that the dull aches had vanished. If you could get past the smell of fish that had been baking in the sun long after it had died, then this paste was some miracle cure! "Old mothers recipe," she winked, having seen the wonder on Cyran's face "now if you'll promise to come back in better shape than this I may let you get ready."
"I promise to come back alive?" Cyran countered, much to his mothers dismay.
"I guess that is the best I can ask for," she sighed, deflated.
Cyran strode back into his bedroom, chest puffed out in pride, and excitedly opened his wardrobe to pick out his combat attire. He wanted practicality above all but what harm was there in looking a little heroic? Donning the usual leather armour, this time with green trims to accent his eyes, he stood back to examine himself in the mirror. Swishing a cape back and forth behind him that he had once found during his adventure in the forest, Cyran suddenly shook his head. "No capes," he muttered before unclipping it. The door to their home opened once again, signalling Virion's arrival.
Cyran walked into the room and stood opposite his father, resplendent in his newly polished armour. Leather straps banded across Cyran's chest and wound their way up to his left shoulder where a pauldron sat with a proud stag emblazoned across it. His twin wooden swords sat comfortably at his hip just above his trousers fitted with hardened leather to protect his lower half. Virion's beaming grin almost blotted out the sun. He help up a a hand before he knelt and lifted a floorboard near their dining table. He removed a wax cloth bundle from the earth beneath and replaced the board. Brushing the years away from the cloth revealed it to be a perfectly sealed box.
"Son, you have no idea how proud I am of the man you are fast becoming. The fact that my hand guides the blades that you use to protect your family in generations to come fills my heart with so much joy. You will have such adventures son," he said, his warm blue eyes held Cyran in place as if charmed.
"Like yours?" the Cyran asked, excitedly. He swear he saw Virion's eye twitch slightly.
"No son, your own adventures. Completely unique to you," his fathers smile never left, "but as your father I will not lie to you. This path you are setting yourself on can be dangerous. It can be bloody and there may be times where you will have to fight for your life. There are things out there that you will experience for the first time that you will not have seen in the village.
"Magic exists, son. You know this as well as I and yet I cannot teach you to defend yourself against it without being able to cast it myself. So, knowing all of this, what will you do? There is no shame in taking up another profession. I know a few wood carvers that are seeking apprentices. But you do have a choice, son. What say you?" At this point his father had held him in a complete trance. He felt completely compelled to listen as though each word he spoke had life altering flames attached and each one could burn him were he not listening.
"I want to take the selection Dad." Cyran said, head held high.
"Then," Virion slowly unwrapped the cloth to reveal an ornately carved wooden box depicting a stag and a flaming bird locked in a duel "you will be needing these." He opened the box and the gleam almost dazzled Cyran. Inside, lying on a bed of red silk, were two of the finest blades he had ever seen. Long, slender blades stretched across the silk creating graceful curves before ending in wicked razor points. Reaching out for the handle that seemed to have strange markings carved into them, Cyran paused. "Go ahead," his father spoke, pre-empting his question, "an old friend of mine and I made these for you the moment you came into this world." Catching a glimpse of Virion's eyes made him stop for a moment. The raw emotion he could see in his fathers eyes filled him with a sense of pride and duty. With renewed vigour, Cyran gripped the handle. It felt so comfortable. He lifted a blade from the box before giving it a couple strokes through the air. It was incredibly light as it whistled through the air, as though its sharpness simply commanded the space to make way.
"It's perfect, Dad. I don't know what to say." he said, starting to tear a little.
"That you'll smash that Rydel punk into next week!" Virion shouted, slapping Cyran on the back before the two burst into heartfelt laughter. With the emotional atmosphere dispelled, Cyran strapped the twin blades in place of his wooden ones. Saying his goodbyes, he left the house and headed for the arena where the selection was to take place with the well wishes of his parents guiding his feet.