The Lufian Family 6

Three years have passed since Marcus died. Three years have passed since the young man who hates humanity has returned. God remains dead.

The sudden change in his disposition was so startling when he first returned from the hill that most of the servants were made uncomfortable. Their discomfort only increased when they felt the way he looked at them, coldly judging their every act and their very worth. Odila was frightened when the brother who came back was no longer her brother. He could barely stand to look at her anymore. He couldn’t bear the feelings such an act carried. Everything he used to be able to do disgusted him now.

Nothing felt right about his life anymore. His memories were a sudden jolt, and nothing was real anymore. His father who was not Dad. His mother who was not Mom. His sister who was not his sister. His self who was not him. Everything about his life felt falsified. He wasn’t able to face them any longer. Although no longer a shut-in, he was even more distanced from them. Nothing he did made sense to them any longer.

However, in the three years that followed, he learned to reconcile his life and his memories. He could again understand his life as he did without a second set of memories and a life that was no longer his. The memories simply sorted themselves out with time. But the Win from three years prior never returned. The young man was assuredly Winfred Lufian, still spending all his time in practice and study, but he had such a disdain for people that almost began to feel false. He had still not returned to play with Odila, in spite of the earnest promise he had made to her.

One day as he swings his sword in the yard he spots his father approaching. He holds a bundle of something in one arm. Win stops his practice swings and turns to face him. He bows his head, and fails to meet his father’s eyes.

“Father, do you need me for something?” Dagobert places a cloak over Win’s shoulders. Win finds it to be strangely heavy, and needs to adjust to hold the extra weight.

“I’ve come to teach you the techniques passed down in the Lufian family. Mastery of the Iron Cloak is one of the most important signs of the Margrave.”

“I don’t need something like that.”

“Don’t be foolish. You are my son and heir.”

“I shouldn’t be heir. I’m not the sort who should lead people. There’s still time to focus your efforts on Odila, Father.”

“Perhaps I should, if this is how you act.”

“Indeed, I’m sure she’ll lead the territory better than I ever could.”

“But I’m sure that you have the potential to be a lord far greater than I ever was. And besides that, I’m sure you want to learn, and I want to teach.”

For a moment Win considers telling his father that he’ll only have a single master in his life. He’s sure that if he said something like that his father would give up. However, he knows that it wouldn’t be true. At the very least he knows he can’t lie, nor can he keep one up, without it hurting him deep at the core of his being.

“Very well, Father.”

For the rest of the day Dagobert begins to instruct Win in their family techniques. They are all ultimately defensive, but Win has trouble with them. They are loud and fanciful. Each move is flashy, defending him through sheer area rather than something more precise. Even when he’s able to maneuver the cloak around it remains a difficulty. Incorporating his movements into his swordplay is a daunting task. For the past three years Win has focused especially on minimizing movement in his slashes. His hope is that it will bring him closer to understanding the Overflowing Heart. To now need to move wildly for his cloak is incongruent to him. Watching him flounder leaves a small, kind smile on Dagobert’s face.

“It seems you haven’t quite taken to the Iron Cloak the same way you did to the sword or magic.”

“All these movements are pointless, Father.”

“Perhaps if you were the only one in need of protection. The Iron Cloak is the mark of a lord, it serves to protect the people behind him. It is a fluid and malleable shield, capable of defending things far out of reach. If your own protection was all that mattered, a sword and buckler would suffice.” Several earthen figures rise out of the dirt behind Dagobert. “Come. I’ll defeat you, and not a single of these dolls behind me will be harmed.”

Without giving any response Win dashes forward. He intends to dash right past his father and aim for the dolls immediately. However, the moment he passes his father, he is smothered by the cloak. With a quick flourish Dagobert tosses Win back, all with just the cloak. Win falls to the ground where he lands.

Win stands up and rolls his shoulders. The cloak falls from his body and clanks against the ground. Win dashes forward once more, now even faster. However, just as before he finds himself trapped within his father’s cloak and tossed back.

With each attempt Win grows faster and sharper. He doesn’t see the point in techniques for protecting others, and this is the way he knows to show it. Each slash gets slightly closer to his targets. Eventually, he can feel his blade tap against the dirt heads of the dolls through his father’s cloak. Although the brush is short lived, Win knows he’s getting closer.

In his next attempt however, something different happens. When his father catches him with the cloak, he instead sends him straight into the ground. Win lays there for a moment from the sudden blow. Dagobert, in a single nimble movement, wraps his cloak around his fist. He strikes Win in the stomach. When Win can’t easily recover afterward, Dagobert declares his own victory.

Dagobert picks up Win and carries him on his back.

“Sorry, I hadn’t intended to fight so seriously. But do you see now, Win? The Iron Cloak is strong. Those who master it are strong. Strength, wisdom, and kindness. Those are the three things a lord needs. And I’m sure that you have a wealth of each, even now.”

Win doesn’t offer any response. Dagobert accepts that too, and returns to the manor with his son on his back.