Master Sikarhy and his father were probably in cahoots, that was what Ymdaton figured out. He was undergoing some kind training to harden his resolve. He could not find any other explanation for the terms on which his father agreed to train him. The deal was that the young man would no longer miss his lessons at Sikarhy's place. He would learn all the things that the thinker required of him. Only when Hamysbir was assured that his son did all the studies, would he train him in the arts of blade.

It was not like everything that the wise man taught was completely distasteful to Ymdaton. Some lessons in history, especially those about wars and battles of the past; some lesson in arts, especially the kind that displayed heroes of old; some lessons in mechanics and natural science, that would explain how and why certain things worked in certain ways, were genuinely interesting to him. But for every two entertaining subjects there was a dozen of deadly boring ones. Such was the latest one.

The master ordered him to memorize a lengthy dusty ancient poem. Ymdaton was not only to put it into his head, but also to retell it then to Sikarhy. He stood in the green garden, trees whispered at the wind, birds sung on their branches. There was a mood in the air to celebrate, exercise, to saunter, but certainly not for the studies.

Memorizing the poem was an arduous task. Constant repetition of poetic formulas, overly long titles for every person, antique language, listings of ships with every person on board being specially mentioned, all the ways to bore a sixteen years old were present. Yet he defeated it. He had beat it like he would beat an enemy. He dismembered it and took a piece at a time, until there was none left on the parchment and all was in his head.

There was a fun part in it though. Ymdaton liked the ending. It felt so absurd, weird, and laughable, that he could not help liking it. Fortunately, the finally was close by, now that he was doing declamation for quarter of an hour.

Two major characters in the poem were a master of mechanics and a bard. They faced a lot of hardship through the story, sometimes together, sometimes by themselves. Eventually they both grew old and were approaching their final years.

Master of mechanics feared that he would not reach the West, since made a great amount of shady deals in his life. He expected Nisirask to stop him and put him into servitude. So he built a magnificent ship, kind of which was not seen before. It carried an intricate system of gears and levers, which was supposed to control sails and rudder. The mechanic wrote down a will saying that he is to be sent to the West in that very ship.

His family obeyed, so when he finally died, they put him into his creation and set the sails. To their surprise, the vessel steered itself onwards, following some secret commands left behind by its creator. It successfully avoided half the storms on the way. Its course was designed so that it would bypass Guardian of the Dead to the north.

But when destination was almost at hand, a terrible sea wyrm emerged from the waves and devoured the ship along with its passenger. So the master of mechanics was denied an eternal life.

The bard on the other hand, never cared for death. He played his string until his last hours. When he passed away, his family put him into the ship and made a farewell ceremony. There were musicians present, performing songs of departure.

In the middle of the funeral, to everyone’s shock, the bard stood up. He approached the musicians with an irritated gait and took their instruments. He hit the strings for everyone to hear what true music is supposed to be.

It is said that the bard wanders Sea Betwixt ever since, bringing his eternal art to people.

After Ymdaton finished, Sikarhy allowed silence to reign in the air for some moments.

“So, what do you think about the poem?” asked he.

“It was damn tough to memorize and kind of boring,” Ymdaton smiled apologetically, “I’m saying it as the one who remembers many songs to a word.”

“It is archaic, that’s all,” told the teacher, “Learning such things makes you pleasant in conversation. You don’t want to come off as a dullard, don’t you?”

“To be quite honest, I can not care less about entertaining others.”

“That will pass with the age,” smirked the thinker, “Anyway, that is not the reason I wanted you to learn it. What do you think is the moral of the story here?”

“Everybody dies?” shrugged his shoulders the boy, “You should stick to doing your thing instead of worrying about it too much, because in the end it comes anyway,” added he instantly with a confused look.

“You should not be ashamed to voice the obvious thing,” the wise man nodded and smiled, “Everyone knows it, yet only few managed to actually follow this advice, especially as their years advanced. It is fine that you understand it early. That is not the case here, though.”

The boy was silent, awaiting the explanation.

“Ask yourself what is death.”

“The end of every human being,” answered Ymdaton after a slight delay.

“Exactly. It is inevitable part of human nature. It is the most obvious of its kind, therefore it is used here to symbolize all things that can not be altered. Opposing it is pointless and will only bring ruin. You should to learn to accept it and live accordingly.”

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

“I don’t quite get it. What would be another example of such thing?”

“You are a warrior by nature, for example. I suppose that your father tried to guide you away from it. These attempts brought nothing but misery to both of you.”

The boy turned away his gaze.

“This ancient poem may be boring, but memorize its lesson. To become a great man you must deal with your inner self before trying to deal with the world around. That’s the end for today. You can now go to train with your father, I can see you being filled with anticipation,” smiled Sikarhy.

Ymdaton thanked him, bid farewell, and with all haste headed home.

Training with his father consisted of constant sparrings. No other exercises were employed. They fought a duel after a duel, back to back. A fight ended when a wooden training weapon delivered a blow which would have been mortal if done by steel. Ymdaton was yet to win at least one.

Hamysbir threaded with grace in a fight, almost lazily. He never betrayed his intention, energy gathered for the attack was never visible in his body language. As a sudden storm, he brought forth action without warning, flipping an unprepared opponent.

Dealing with unexpected onslaught was one thing and Ymdaton learned it quickly. He tried to goad his father into counterattacking, constantly pressing him. So that the opponent would strike when he wanted it, sparing him of constant anxious attempts at predicting Hamysbir's actions. But the warrior was not as simple.

Even at defensive, he was still beating Ymdaton. His answers with a blade were innovative, weird. He designed their sparring so that when he had beaten his son with a certain trick, he would then repeat it again and again with variations, until Ymdaton learned it. Then he tried something fresh and the cycle continued.

And so it was today, the father cornered the boy with a same simple feint. He faked a missed parry and then, when his blade was seemingly flying away uncontrollably, he hooked son’s wrist with a beard of an axe, pulled it to the side, and knocked him down. Ymdaton saw the trick, he understood he, he knew it was coming at some point, but he still could not quite figure out the timing.

His father always performed it when he was least expecting. They began anew and again he attacked, again met a parry that did not quite work. This time he did not try to get his arm back onto position, instead he threw he full body after it. Not only he avoided a blow of a shield which could have stunned him, but almost managed to disarm father. A time to make a single breath separated him from victory there. It was enough for his Hamysbir to outflank and floor him with a kick to the back of the knee.

“That’s enough,” said his father and helped him to stand up.

“But I almost got you!” breathed Ymdaton heavily.

“Almost is what many slain warriors could have said,” his father shook his head and smiled slightly, “I want to tell you something.”

They boy placed himself alongside his father and listened carefully.

“Not that you surely stepped upon the warrior’s path, I want to tell you why I was against it. I will teach you many things. My experience in blade art is vast. I can show you countless tricks, moves, steps. I can teach you how to use your body to its utmost capability, how land the strongest blow, how to fight with weapons of every shape, or without one at all. But that is not all. The battle is not but a sum of all things that make it, just like our life in general. That which is unseen makes the biggest difference...”

“But you should know it, you are too good not to, teach me that also” said Ymdaton.

“Oh, I know,” laughed Hamysbir “But I can not teach it, unlike all that I mentioned. The true nature of the battle can not be explained. It can not be put into words, only pointed at, suggested. I can give you hints, but you must feel it yourself. And when you do, you will become the true warrior, nothing will be able to stop you.

But the truth is, the nature of battle can be perceived from inside of it. You will probably go into your first war without understanding it. When I finally saw it, I reflected on my past and was shocked. It was seen to me clearly that before I was surviving mostly by luck. It is true that skill and resolve can take you far, but there are so many possibilities in the fight that one can not be prepared to everything.

I was fortunate enough to live until my eyes opened. But many good people I knew weren’t. Of all wonderful friends I made in the crews, none are with us today. One unlucky swing and there could have been no me for your mother, no me for you, and you could have not existed at all.

I want you to live a long happy life, to see your dreams come true. But you are about to begin a walk on the road where every turn can be the last one. And that is why I didn't want you to become a warrior. That is why I kept my deeds secret. So you won’t go after my example. I am afraid. I will do everything that is possible, to make you ready. And I know from the start that it won’t be enough.”

There was silence.

“Don’t fear, dad. I will do my best, I will learn whatever is needed,” said the son.

“I believe in you. You are talented, even more so than I. The only thing that I can’t give you is luck, so let the stars provide it for you.”