Chapter Twenty-Five: Empty Nest
Tom walked down Wayrest’s main boulevard with a growing sense of trepidation. If he was to be exiled to the Hunter’s, he would at very least need his meagre possessions before he left. Entering the Deep with no weapons, no food and no clothes was passing foolish - it was suicide.
There was only one issue. Entering his father’s house after his display in the Council Chambers was just as suicidal.
Tom slowed as he approached the gate to their compound. It was just before noon now, and the foot traffic this far into the Noble district was light.
No point delaying, he thought. Better to get this over with quickly.
And with that, he unlatched their gate and made his way in. Eyes forward, he nearly ran straight over Mart, their family’s butler, who drifted out of one the gravelled garden paths.
“Young Master. I am glad to see you before I leave. I am taking leave of my employment immediately. If you value your life, I suggest you leave right now too,” Mart said.
“Mart, what’s going on? You can’t be serious,” Tom said, flabbergasted. Mart had been omnipresent in Tom’s life for as long as he could remember. Him saying he was leaving was like the roof of the house suddenly saying, “goodbye” and toddling off.
“I’m afraid I'm deadly serious. I’ve heard the news. I must express my most heartfelt congratulations on your manifestations, and my deepest condolences on your …sentence. If it brings you any comfort in times to come, know that at least one person knows exactly why you manifested Suffering, and still thinks you’re a good person.”
Tom felt his eyes burning again. He gulped as Mart continued, “Your father is wild. Absolutely out of sorts. As soon as news spreads, even the few acquaintances he has left will drop him. This is it, for the Cutter House, I think.”
“I think you might be right,” Tom said, his throat feeling thick. “What will you do?”
“There are always Nobles in need of butlers, don’t worry about me young Master,” Mart assured him. “The real question is: what are you doing? I would suggest turning right around. There’s no telling what your father will do. He is an unreasonable man at the best of times, and he is completely besides himself. Drowning men will thrash all about themselves with no care for who they might drag under with them.”
It was sound advice. “Thank you Mart, for your concern. I plan on being straight in and out again. With any luck, I won’t even see father.”
“I should hope you don’t,” Mart said. “Best be quick about it then, you know as well as I he’s not likely to get any milder.”
Mart patted him on the arm, but Tom pulled him into a brief, stiff hug.
“Thank you Mart, for everything you’ve done for me. For us. It …can’t have been easy.”
“No need, young Master. Merely doing my job. Good luck out there. I will think of you. You are a good lad. Keep your head about you, and you’ll do fine.”
They shared a brief look, knowing it was the last time they’d see each other. Then Mart composed himself, straightening, and set off towards the gate at a brisk stride. Tom turned his eyes to the grand double doors.
The house was deathly quiet as Tom eased open the door. He slipped through and closed it behind him, ever so gently.
He didn’t need Mart’s warning to know how serious the situation was. His father almost beat him to death on a regular day, and today Tom had caused the downfall of his House.
He had two options from here: he could go up the main stairs and along the hallway to his room, which would require navigating directly past his father’s study, or he could go through the dining room, into the kitchen, and up the servants’ stairs, which opened onto the second floor right next to his room. He picked the second, and padded silently across the foyer to the dining room doors.
Sweat prickled his neck as Tom cracked the doors, quietly as he could, and slipped through. He took a single step, and then froze.
The dining room was enormous. Like the rest of their house, it was a holdover from when they were held in esteem by the peerage. Intricately carved and subtly gilded panels decorated the walls. The windows, set high in the walls, sat behind closed curtains of heavy velvet. Lamps cast flickering shadows about the room. The grand dining table could seat a dozen people to a side. Presently, it sat one.
Lord Cutter glowered at Tom from his seat, his eyes fixated on him. Six swords and a glass of wine were arranged neatly on the table before him.
“I thought you would come,” he said, quietly. “I’ve been waiting.” Tom’s instincts screamed danger at him. His father was many things, but he was rarely quiet. Nor could you say he was a man who liked waiting.
“Into the Deep with no weapons or armour is a death sentence, isn’t it?” His father swirled the glass of wine. “We can’t have that can we? That would almost be like your exile is a punishment.”
He threw the wine back, a violent, spasmodic action, and placed it gently back on the table. He caressed the round foot of the glass.
“The Cutters take care of their own,” he continued. “Come, boy, haven’t you always wanted a proper sword..?” Lord Cutter gestured to the lengths of steel lying in front of him on the white silk tablecloth.
Tom still hadn’t moved. A bead of sweat traced a long line down his back. This was exactly what he hoped to avoid, but there was no avoiding confrontation now. If he declined, his father would either call him a coward, or find insult in him spurning their namesakes, or both. Anything he said would be used as a pretext to beat him. If he tried to retreat, his father would leap upon the weakness like a feral dog. If he said nothing, his father would back him into a corner. And if he approached, meaning to take a sword, his father would beat him for daring to think himself worthy.
The saddest thing was that this was not the first time his father had put him in such a position. Not even the first time he had been in this exact situation, more or less. They had played it out, he and his father, to every one of its conclusions. More than once. More times than he could count. He saw all the many variations spin out in front of him, and suddenly he felt so very tired of it all.
So Tom did something he had never done before.
He straightened. He looked his father in the eye. He reached his hands to the buttons of his coat, and as he worked them free, he began to speak.
“You are a fool, Lord Cutter,” he began. “A blind fool.” His coat came open, and he shrugged it off.
“Seventeen years, give or take. Seventeen years you spent chasing smoke. Sniffing around vainly after past glories.” He unbuttoned his cuffs, started rolling his sleeves.
“You want to know why our House has gone to shit? Look in a fucking mirror,” Tom said, his temper rising. “You’re an awful man, a terrible husband, and an even worse father.”
Tom jabbed his finger at him, as if he could pin him to the wall with it. “This is all your fault! You caused this! Seventeen years, and the only thing you ever fucking taught me was suffering! And now you’re surprised when I manifest it?! You’re a fucking joke!”
At his last word his father snatched up one of the swords. Tom knew he would. He was only surprised it had taken this long. Lord Cutter shot to his feet, sending his chair clattering to the marble floor.
“I think you must have me mistaken, b-”
“I’m not interested in listening to shit dribble out of that asshole you call a mouth!” Tom screamed at him. “Fucking fight me!”
His father hesitated for a second, shocked, and then Tom saw it happen. He snapped, as he always did when he was at his worst. Went past the shores of reason and into the land of red, red fury. Tom was counting on it. It was the only way he could win.
An Idealist got stronger with every Ideal they manifested, and every time they managed to uplift an Ideal. The only exception was the first uplift, which was often not seen as a ‘true’ uplift.
Ideals started at Classic, and uplifted to Complete when all four skills under the Ideal had been manifested. Once all skills under an Ideal were uplifted to the next tier, the Ideal would uplift as well. There were either five or six tiers, depending on which school of thought you subscribed to: Classic, Complete, Consummate, Exemplary, Supreme and Flawless.
His father held the Exemplary Ideal of the Sword, having uplifted it twice from Complete. That meant he had gained three ‘temperings’ of his body - the same as Tom had gotten from manifesting three separate Ideals. The difference was that each time his father had uplifted his one Ideal, his skills had gotten stronger. And he had decades more experience than Tom too.
And so he took a gamble. He knew the only way to level the playing field was if his father wasn’t thinking, so he let loose his anger and frustration. It was, in part, calculated, but, if he was being honest, he had somewhat lost control himself.
His father prowled towards him, an ugly snarl locked on to his reddening face. He held his sword at his side, a beautiful piece of steel, three feet long, double sided and straight. He fell into a swordsman’s walk, silent and steady, as he rounded the table.
Tom relaxed. Somehow it felt as though an enormous weight had fallen off his shoulders. His father had bullied him, abused him, tortured him for years - all because Tom hadn’t manifested. Now he knew it for the lie it was.
Though a child will hope against hope for redemption, for a parent’s love, somewhere along the line it had all soured into fear. Now that Tom had finally stood up to him, he found he wasn’t afraid any more. Just angry.
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He raised his fists into a half guard as his father stalked towards him. He would have to stay outside his father’s range - he was unarmed after all. But only if you were counting conventional weapons.
Agony, he thought, spitting the mental invective at his father.
Lord Cutter stumbled as his step hitched. Actinic pink arcs flickered and snaked from his clothes. His eyes flared hotter, though, and he kept on.
“Your little tricks are nothing, boy,” he snarled. “How dare you?!”
Tom braced himself as his father tensed, quickly throwing one arm over his face. A split second later stinging lacerations opened all over his body as his father blasted sword energy from himself in a sphere. A cacophony made of wood scratching and marble scraping hit Tom as the skill scoured the room.
Instinctively, Tom leaned back as far as he could, lowering his arm. A bright silvery spear of light flashed towards him, the tip just grazing his sternum. This was the second of his father’s four skills, and the most deadly.
Arrow-Sword elongated the reach of any sword it was used on by creating a false blade of sword energy. He would have been run through if he’d been hit. While the Sword Storm - the area of effect attack - was harder to evade, each blade of sword energy it conjured was far weaker individually.
He immediately shuffle-stepped to the side, angling his body, and another bright flash of energy peeked past his chest. He cast Agony upon his father again, and began stepping backwards, hoping to remain outside his range while the damage over time of his own skill whittled his father down.
Lord Cutter, trained to fight since birth, knew exactly what he was about though, and charged. The room was only so big, and Tom knew being cornered against a wall would be death. He was forced to frantically weave about, using everything he’d been taught to keep steel from his flesh.
As he bobbed and ducked and slid he noticed something odd. Before, when ‘training’ with his father, or against Idealists at the Academy, he had always been awed at how quickly they had moved, how graceful their footwork was. Even though he had been training most of his life, he could never seem to sew his steps together into such silky tapestries. Now, it was effortless.
His reactions were faster. His flexibility was greater. His speed, his strength, his overall constitution - were all heightened. He wasn’t even puffed.
If Tom’s endurance was up to the task, then his father’s definitely was too, though. He attacked, faster and faster, until his sword whistled through the air with every movement. Even more concerning was that ripples began to trail behind the sword, like a cut in the air itself, and there they remained.
His father’s Hanging Flower Sword skill was a channelled skill that left behind ‘afterimages’ of his sword strikes. The afterimages were just as deadly as the real thing, and as they built up, their battlefield would become increasingly dangerous.
Tom began to take cuts, unable to step or weave as far as he would like, hemmed in by the hanging blades. His body was stinging all over. If he let too many deep cuts build up he would make a mistake eventually.
His new skill, Echo, was proving its worth, returning a small amount of any damage he was dealt back to his father. From his initial explosive skill his father had also been covered in cuts, though much less severely. And now, any time he landed a strike on Tom, he was rewarded with a slightly brown tinged phantom blade striking him in retaliation.
Even so, the situation was becoming more and more dangerous for Tom. Echo didn’t return enough damage to make much of a difference, and Grit only kicked in as his health lowered. Although it helped, Tom was likely to take a fatal wound far before his skill increased his toughness enough to make a difference. Even using Agony each time as soon as it came off cooldown was not enough. It was meant for grinding down an opponent, only doing low damage up front.
His father boxed him further and further in, restricting his movements with hanging lines of incredible sharpness. Tom flagged, missing a step, and stumbled.
He saw his father’s eye glint with triumph. Saw his nostrils flare and his nose crumple into a snarl. He raised his sword and swung it down in a contemptuous arc.
“Hush,” Tom whispered, and launched himself upwards.
The hanging lines of energy disappeared, interrupted. His father’s eyes went wide with confusion, then wider still as Tom blocked his sword by striking his forearm and drove his fist into his gut as hard as he could. His breath left him in a silent rush.
As his father curled over Tom’s fist, he grabbed him by the back of the neck and dragged his face into his knee. He flipped backwards and sprawled on the floor. His head bounced off the marble. His sword went flying.
Tom began laying into him with fists and feet. He poured Agony into him at every opportunity. He vented years of frustration, horror, and fear straight back at his father. He wanted him to feel pain. No, not just feel pain, Tom wanted him to know it. Know how hopeless and weak and pathetic Tom had felt all these years.
In the corner of his eye, he saw his wisp pulse bright pink, but he was too enraged to check it.
Lord Cutter, noble scion of one of the oldest House, curled about himself on the floor and tried to protect himself from the wild onslaught. Tom kept on. He pulled his arms about his head, trying to keep Tom from striking it, and he moved to hitting his kidneys. One of his father’s favourite tricks.
Eventually, the fog began to lift. The punches and kicks came slower. And underneath the sound of his laboured, wild breathing, he realised he could hear his father crying.
A flash of contempt hit him, almost enough to start him off again. But he had won. Lord Cutter was a bloody mess, the once proud man curled into a dishevelled, snivelling little ball.
Tom took a deep breath and suddenly his anger went out of him. He felt only pity for this failure of a man. Shaking his head, he pulled over his wisp.
Skill manifested (Suffering).
Skill Three (Classic): Misery Loves Company (Active).
Mana cost: Moderate.
Cooldown: Low.
Range: Medium.
Caster creates a link between themselves and a target enemy. Any damage is shared in part with the enemy. Damage shared this way is typeless. Enemies can break the link by moving out of range. Broken links place a short duration stun on the enemy.
“Well, at least you were good for something in the end,” Tom said to his father. A slightly louder sob was his only response. The new skill had myriad applications, and he’d need time to parse through them all. Tom strode for the servant stairs, and from there, his room.
It took him bare minutes to pack. He didn’t have many belongings, and he wouldn’t be taking much anyway. Several changes of clothes, thick woollens, and a spare pair of boots went into a sturdy pack. A thick, well made black cloak got packed away too - winter was on its way, after all. His life savings - a handful of gold coins that he’d squirrelled away whenever he got the chance - went in too. Lastly, he changed out of his tattered formal wear and into some plain, but well-made black breeches and a soft white shirt.
He took one last look around the room that had been his only retreat for so much of his life. It seemed smaller. It no longer seemed to fit. He left without a second thought.
On his way back through the kitchen he appropriated two canteens, filling one with water and the other with wine. He wrapped bread and cheese and meats and dried fruit in waxed paper, grabbed a set of cutlery, and tucked them all in his pack too.
He made his way back into the dining room. His father was sitting now, his face streaked with blood and tears, staring vacantly at the wall. He was no longer injured though. Lady Cutter knelt beside him, one hand on his face, gently trying to cajole a response out of him.
Another wave of anger swept through him. His father had almost killed him, and his mother went straight to him to heal him and soothe his bruised pride.
Of course she did, he thought. Fuck her too then.
He would need weapons for his new life, and so he made his way to the training room. The sound of light footsteps pattered after him.
“Tom, wait!” his mother called to him. “Stop! You can’t leave!”
He ignored her, pushing open the training room doors. She scurried after him as he walked to the weapons racks.
“Your father will come right, you know he always does. Don’t do this, Tom!”
He selected their best spear, much like the ones they used on Reapings, but made all of a lightweight steel. Thin black leather wound down the length of the shaft for grip.
“Tom, please!”
He chose another leaf bladed short sword and buckled it to his belt. The last one had served him well in the Deep. He grabbed a breastplate, greaves and armguards, and a short, light mail hauberk too, juggling them as he sought to stow them properly.
“You can’t leave! What are you doing!?” his mother shrieked at him.
His eyes lingered on the far wall. There hung the best sword they owned. Nameless, as their progenitor famously spurned ostentation of any kind, it was nonetheless beautiful.
Straight, doubled-edged, and thin, it was tempting to think of it as simple, but Tom knew if he got closer he would be able to see the fine, flowing enchantments engraved into the blade. He left it hanging where it was. Perhaps his father could sell it. The thought made him happy.
The stray thought gave him an idea though, and he quickly fetched several of their best swords and bundled them together, sheaths and all.
He turned, adjusting his pack, and looked at his mother.
“Fuck you,” he said flatly. She gaped at him.
“Fuck you for enabling him. Fuck you for never doing enough. Fuck you for not saving me!” he shouted at her.
“For years - years! - he tortured me! All in the name of ‘saving our House’, and you just stood by, doing nothing. You have Healing! How could you?”
“Just …fuck you,” he trailed off.
He made to barge past her and she grabbed him by the arm. He immediately felt his wounds start to knit back together.
“I’m sorry, Tom. I wish I'd done more, I wish…” she started, tears running down her face.
Tom couldn’t help but feel anger at this woman who had never tried to stop his father. But he also remembered all the times she had healed him, as she had just now, and couldn’t quite find the same cruelty, the same contempt for her, as he had for his father. The mix of emotions left him feeling curious, both hollow and full.
His wisp, trailing along like a puppy, pulsed pink again. His eyes flicked to it, but he needed to be on his way.
“No unfucking it now, is there?” he gave her a sarcastic smile. “Goodbye, mother. I’m sure you’ll get along as well as you always have.”
He knew, as he said it, that it was incredibly unfair of him. That she had been just as much a victim as he. But at that moment, after finally standing up to his father for the very first time in his life, after just having reclaimed himself, he had nothing else for her.
He was being juvenile, and he knew it. Somehow, he mustered enough energy to turn back to her.
“I’m sorry. I know you’ve been carrying this all for even longer than I have,” he faltered. “I…”
“I know, Tom,” she said. “I know.” And she grabbed him, pulled him into a hug like when he was a child, and held him.
After what felt like an eternity, she gently let him go.
“Come back to me, young man. I hope for you to find a different woman when you do. Today has been …too much. I see it now. Enough is enough.”
“Take yourself back from him,” he said to her, knowing she would take it exactly as he meant.
She gave him a heartbroken smile. “I’m proud of you, Tom. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he said in a small voice.
And Tom turned, and he strode out the door. Consigned to a new life of hardship, but at least free of his old one. It had grown too small to fit him, anyway.
He was done wallowing. Done cringing, and cowering. Done with all of it.
Free.