HOW CAN A SWORD-STROKE BE CALLED LOVE?

[sam33497 3054]

Spoiler

 

 

 

 

 

There were probably more details that culminated in the development of that child into what he was, but those are lost to the world, but for the sporadic observations of some staffers of a white palace, that shrewd Yera Silveira, and perhaps the boy himself.

 

But what was clear to those who speculated upon his existence and its accompanying implications was that isolation was one part of it, that he did not see the world, or was well-hidden from it, and it was clear to them once his visage was seen and his words spoken that he had sprung from this solitude into a unique creature.

 

He spoke unabashedly with the intelligence of that elf he resembled, and yet he interspersed words of fatalistic philosophy with the horrible naivete of a child; he spoke of love, of the unconditional salvation of others. He posited this as reason for living, that change was the definition of life and that he could parse through right and wrong as he saved.

 

And so it was that he was naturally led to the blade; acquainted with fantasy he was, and he understood the narrative structure of the world. That right and wrong occurred in great quantity, that should he wish to insert himself he must be able to mold the world around him. Yet when he saw the world with his own eyes for the first time, and noticed its entropic trappings, its senseless loss and violence, the picture he had erected within his mind began to fall apart.

 

He looked at the innocent blade he held, and reflected in it was sadness and death - the cruel brutality of the world. What was that sword? It was a tool for parting the body of another. How could such a thing offer salvation? How can one save by doing violence, by killing?

 

These questions burned within his mind as he tried not to think of his progenitor, the horrible Lanre Cerusil, who had taken power into his hands and rent what he saw indiscriminately. He tried not to think of those shadows around him who looked upon him expectantly, that in lineage to his father he would become something even more horrible.

 

 

In the throes of this confusion did a string of fate pull Silwyn forth - to a time and place he marched, because it was demanded of him by his very being - and there he met him, that one thing which remained of his father’s legacy which was good - the bridge between horrible power and the morality that he sought.

 

Hurin Nullivari-Ibarellan, lineage of greatest elves, foremost of warriors of mali, titular ruler of a sky that eclipsed an eagle’s sight in magnitude; those two met, and the elder mali’aheral saw in the young Silwyn an untempered flame, and decided in moments that the son of his dead ally would inherit his legacy.

 

He was taught the greatest paradox of them all; to love through violence. And he was taught to exert great violence, melded by his own ingenuity and the teachings of that legendary swordsman into something unnatural, remaining to be uncovered by the world.

 

Shortly after, Silwyn found the answer to his question.

 

How can you save through harm? How can you do more right than wrong? How can you do good without doing horrible evil? How can a sword-stroke be called love? One question, iterated in countless ways.

 

And he answered it with every fiber of his being, that string of fate uncoiling from him and bridging the gap into a distant, unknown future:

 

“I must be the answer to this question.”

 

 

Spoiler

this is just narrative but u can reply if u want to larp lol