"Do the right thing."
"Do the good thing."
"Always, and no matter what."
My father lived by those words.
He died by them, too.
Afterall, no matter how noble the heart, it can still be pierced through. A blade in battle shows no bias in who it cuts down, and every man thinks himself an unstoppable force—right up until they are bleeding out in the dirt.
My father knew those risks. The ones that came with protecting Terith, a town that neared the east-border, an area of Prodia where even the king's constables steered clear. Any land sharing shade with the Dark Forest homed a very specific set of people— the desperate. Those who were born with nothing and had nothing to lose, or those who were born inland and lost land and fortune in some sour turn of events. They would come to Terith in hopes of starting again. But little did they know, once you wind up in the outskirts, you rarely leave. And even worse, it changes you. Once some tasted freedom from the king's law, they spoiled in ways you'd never think possible. Taking what isn't theirs, defiling the land, attempting to establish their own law by stirring fear in others, and taking advantage of the poor and weak.
That is why Tibus Kimball made himself strong, perfecting the art of the blade and raising it up against those who threatened the land he lived, for those he loved, and for those who could not do so themselves. He did what many thought was a fool's errand, making a difference in a town that did not wish to change. But he did, and Terith became better because of it— because of him.
I was a young child, not yet weaned off my mother's breast, when my father first taught me his ideals; "A person should use his strength and skill in honorable ways, lending it to those without their own."
I believed those words, instilled them in my own heart long before I knew of my gift, of what they would mean for someone like me.
I was thin growing up. A lanky child with sunken cheeks, frail limbs and even frailer looking demeanor. I was sick more often than not, and because of this, my mother often scolded my father, telling him it was dangerous to fill my head with dreams of following in his footsteps. Of course, like any good man, he would sooth her with caresses and sweet words, but he never spoke of denying me the opportunity to practice in his craft.
Thinking back on it now, he must have known.
He must have seen the fire in my eyes, the burning in my heart to do more— be more. Perhaps, like my mother, he never believed I could do it either, but thought it best I discover my limits myself, instead of being told of them.
That must be true, because the day he caught me, his eyes were wide with shock.
I remember it well—the smell of moist earth, the rhythmic tapping of an always-leaking roof. I remember the hilt of my father's sword smoothing into my eager hand, how I could feel the metal that hid underneath the leather cover shape to my fingers. It felt no different than holding my mother's feather quill; just as fragile, just as light. And when I lifted that longsword over my head effortlessly, the gasp that left my father's mouth stopped my heart.
It was a rule to stay out of the stable, and if I did enter for some errand or another, I was to never touch his weapons. I knew this well, and yet he stood in the entryway, a bucket in hand and mouth agape, watching me disregard what I'd been told on many occasions, and I froze upon seeing him. I did not fear my father in the way other children in Terith feared theirs, but I went out of my way to please him, to make him proud. I was keen on not breaking rules, even as a babe. What got into me that day, I still can't explain without sounding mad. All I'm sure of is, if blades could call names, that one beckoned me even in my soundest sleep, and I suppose giving into that call was inevitable. But, what should have been a day of lectures and punishment became something else entirely.
