The Lufian Family 10

Win, Calliope, Rolant, and the soldiers he recruited dash down the road leading to the manor. Win has calculated it all out, and in his heart he’s already certain that they’re drawing close. Win, not with any more magic but rather the pure might of his body, has begun to pull ahead of his followers. His homecoming draws near. Anxiously, desperately, he charges forward.

He charges towards the place of his reckoning, the place he has been avoiding this whole time, without a second thought. The thought of his family in danger, of harm befalling them, pains his heart almost too much for him to bear. And yet, there’s one pervasive thought he can’t seem to shake. There’s a single thought, bubbling to the surface over and over, no matter how he tries to push it down, that pains him even more. He has begun to wonder if it might be better for the battle to be lost before he arrives.

Vengeance is so much simpler than what he knows he must do. It is much easier to run around filled with hatred than to stay in one place where he must be loved. Win knows he is strong, and he has no doubt of his own victory. Whether now or later the hammer of justice will fall, of this he is certain. Indeed, in Win’s mind there is no longer any difference between suffering more or less. All people will suffer, all lives involve suffering, that is the karma humanity bears. There is no point in fighting against that fate. Like all other things, it is pointless. In the grand scheme of things saving them will change nothing. They will find no absolution, and humans will continue to hurt each other. In that view, Win wonders if it does not matter if he arrives in time. He wonders if it might be alright if he arrives too late in the end. If only to delay facing them a moment longer, he wonders. And yet he never slows in his charge.

Fear seizes his heart with every step closer to the manor. Not the fear that he might lose nor the fear that his father already has, but the fear that he might feel his family’s love again. Their warmth is a scorching flame to him. No matter what they intend as they love him, Win will be hurt. Or rather, Win will hurt himself. Over and over again, so that their warmth will be a scorching flame, Win will burn himself. He already knows the words, and he needs only a few.

The world is a facsimile, a fake made to resemble reality and thus all the more pointless and repugnant, and a purgatory that he is doomed to wander. The blessing of parents who love him unconditionally and will do him no wrong, the blessing of a little sister who he ought to protect, the blessing of a life far away from suffering. To have it all again is far too great, especially for a man like him. It must be something far more vapid and shallow than he’s ever seen before. It must be a divine prank, or a punishment of some kind. There must be a trick in their love somewhere, and so Win has no choice but to run from it. Indeed, he must stop himself from facing it, for no good could come from it. However, more frightful than facing the love of his family, something assuredly hollow and meant only to bring him harm, is facing his own love for them.

His family is a fake. If the world is fake then its inhabitants must follow. They too are the facsimile. A father who is not his father, a mother who is not his mother, a sister who is not his sister; a family that is not his family. They are nothing but fakes meant to replace the real ones. At least now, now that he understands, Win wants to be a filial son. His smile and love belong to those he stole it from, not anybody else. And regardless of the circumstances of birth and life Win will let nobody usurp that. As the foolish son, this is the only way he has left to honor his parents. As the useless brother, this is the only way he has left to love his sister. He cannot let himself love another. It’s proper that he be alone if he cannot give to the ones most important to him. Indeed, he cannot be their son or brother, for that role too belongs to somebody else. And yet Win does not slow in his charge, even as he desires no connection.

Upon these reflections, Win has realized that there is only one connection he had in this world that was not vapid. Only a single one that usurped nothing and lacked the distance Win makes. The only connection was to his master, the first man capable of teaching him something he failed to learn himself, to Marcus. Marcus had simply come and gone before Win expelled those he held dear in his heart and cut the chasms in the ground to let no one else in. And so his spirit alone can exist there now. And everyday Win swings his sword in his honor, in his memory, wishing that he could teach him once more.

Win can still hardly bear how deeply he’s failed as a student. He’s meant to be the sole master now, and yet he still has grasped nothing. He is a master of an art that he cannot wield. Win swings his sword again and again, everyday, desperately hoping it gets him one step closer. He tells himself it does. He knows that the Overflowing Heart is the culmination of all he knows, and as such each step towards greater mastery is a step towards that he does not know. And yet he feels it in his heart that he has not gotten any further along. He is still standing in the same place as he was when Marcus died in front of him. And every moment that passes that image fades, the connection dwindles, the spirit dissipates, the memory is forgotten. Win is sure that one day, without having learned anything, Marcus will disappear entirely from this world. His teaching too were pointless. All it produced in the end was a sword that cuts down evil and a pointless wielder who does not seek it out. But cutting down evil, wielding the sword entirely, they are pointless to Win. They do nothing in the end. There is only one thing that matters and it is what he fails to do. Everyday Win reaches out his hand, and everyday he fails to grasp at mastery, at Marcus’s final slash, at that gentle and powerful blade, and he can feel it drifting away. The gap between his hand and the thing Marcus would even die to pass on to him grows greater every passing moment. He is a failure of a student, and was never meant to be a warrior.

And yet, even with thoughts such as these, Win cannot allow himself to slow in his charge.

He comes to the wall of the manor and clears it in a single bound. The soldiers are shocked to see it bypassed with such ease, and yet Win, the most powerful in the manor, does so with ease. As he crosses over the wall, Win lays eyes on the courtyard. He sees his father on his knees and the axehead drawing near. Indeed, if Win had, as the vapid fool he is desired, come late, everything would have been hollow. It would have found a way to matter even less, against all odds. Win dashes on the wind and appears between Dagobert and Leofwine. He covers Dagobert with his iron cloak and saves the life of the father who is not his father. Yet indeed the man standing before Dagobert is his beloved son, returned home at last.