The Keeper's Sons: Two Sons of Thaden

Tobaias had followed the footsteps up to the place where he had last seen Lethaat disappear.  It was a pathway where he and his aged grandfather had been walking.  Oh, Tobaias had heard the news - Thaarien, his cousin’s guardian, was growing old, and would soon depart to the havens.  It was tragic, but it was a time that came in the lives of every elf.  While a part of him naggingly suggested that his current actions might be ill-timed, surely there would have been more pomp and circumstance to the old blacksmith’s departure.  Lethaat had only been gone a day - surely, Thaarien’s departure would have been made a little bit more memorable, and the journey longer, given the old fellow’s standing in the town.

The boy, of only 110 years, wasn’t here right now simply because he was Lethaat’s cousin - far from it.  In fact, while the boys had grown together almost all their lives, the blood that joined them was thin, separated by several generations, and their lives were distant.  Thaarien had spent Lethaat’s youth training the boy to become a brilliant leader, a warrior, a guard, and a wise, sage protector.  While Thaarien had once desired to make a jeweler of the lad, Lethaat’s rebellious nature - some said from his father - made that a frank impossibility.  Tobaias’ calling had always been inside the confines of a shop, surrounded by needles, and thread, and fabrics, and dyes.  His was the life of a simple tailor, as the lives of his family had always revolved around simple tailoring.  

This didn’t mean that his role in Sirraven was any greater or any less than Lethaat’s, or Thaarien’s, not in any eyes but his own.  His was an essential role in a town which valued beauty and beautiful things, and the works that Tobaias produced, for his age, were akin to what Thaarien himself would have produced as a contemporary.  He had been trained in the art by his mother and father, his sister and he were long keepers of the secrets of the trade, a family whose lives revolved around their closeness, and around their love of art and the good things that they created.    

Tobaias, though, longed for something more.  He longed for adventure, the sort of things that his cousin Lethaat did - truly, his cousin made Tobaias jealous at times, despite their good friendship and standing with each other.      Lethaat had told him years ago - ten years, after Lethaat’s inception into the guard.  He’d asked his cousin to show him a thing of swordplay, put in a good word for him, and perhaps land him a position in the guard of Sirraven.  

Lethaat, at the time, had found the concept of Tobaias with a sword or glaive to be something amusing, and had denied the request.  After all, Tobaias had only been a mere hundred years - surely, he wouldn’t have the maturity, in the eyes of the elders, to be placed in such a prestigious, honorable position.  No longer.  

Tobaias was an adult now, in the eyes of the city and the eyes of the world, and he was ready to seize his dreams, and pursue them.  The simple tailer from the inner city’s trade quarter would become the greatest guard of them all, a hero.  Men would admire him, women would flock to him, and all would know his name.  His exploits would be written in chronicles for ages to come.  

Oh, yes.  He would be a warrior and champion the likes of which the archivists of Sirraven hadn’t known in centuries - he didn’t know who he’d vanquish, or conquer, or win out over, but he would.  After all, that was what heroes did, wasn’t it?  Of course, he’d have to save the town as well.  All that could wait, though, until after he’d become inducted into the guard.  That was the first step.

As he watched, hiding behind shrubs and felled branches along the weathered, red-brown dirt path that only a kilometer back would lead to the city, he spotted a lone figure approaching from the north, at least he thought it was north, based on the shadows that the sun cast from the west at this late hour.  Yes, the figure was unquestionably Lethaat - the white-blonde, long hair, the glaive positioned as a convenient walking stick, and, of course, the characteristic blue tunic of one of the guardsmen beneath a dark, silver elven breastplate.  

The armor was ornate, and shone brightly in the sun’s glare, and a pang of jealousy once again struck the young hopeful Tobaias, seeing his cousin approach.  This time, he’d surprise Lethaat.  This was not the first time he’d attempted to earn the older boy’s respect through a feat of martial prowess, but this time he was sure to win.  

It hadn’t even occured to Tobaias, so intent was he on his task, that Thaarien hadn’t yet been produced from the bushes, or that Thaarien wasn’t present.  

Lethaat walked along, lost in self-reflection, and recollection.  To mind, he recalled and revisited all of the many times, good and ill, that he and his adoptive parent had shared, all of the inheritances that he had gained from the old man, more of mind and heart than of the physical world.  Thaarien, after all, was a blacksmith; he was not a rich man, nor was he a man of power or rank.  His greatest wealth was in his teachings, his philosophies, and the unique manner in which he saw the world around them.  It fell to Lethaat, now, to preserve those beliefs, and to make certain that they were not something lost in this world.  To him fell the task of making sure that Thaarien was remembered and honored, and loved.

So lost was Lethaat in his thoughts that, for once in his life, he failed to notice the creeping figure in the bushes.  Rarely had the bushes themselves been employed in the past - often, Lethaat had caught Tobaias hiding with a dull wooden blade or staff behind a barrel, or a wall, and occasionally Lethaat had even been roused from a deep reflection (not a slumber, for elves, you see, never sleep) by Tobaias hiding out in his window or doorway, assaulting and ambushing him at his most vulnerable moments.  Not once, though, had Tobaias ever truly gotten the jump on him, or genuinely surprised him.  

The viper of a lad was coiled, stalking his quarry from the bushes, his heart racing as Lethaat approached.  Would he get away with it this time?  Would Lethaat notice?  Or would Lethaat simply lead him on, as he did countless times before, only to raise his weapon and best Tobaias at the last possible moment?  Tobaias contemplated, for a moment, abandoning this foolish venture and leaving Lethaat to walk his way back to the citadel in peace - it might mean less bruises in the long run.  Tobaias, though, had a spirit that wouldn’t be quelled, and this was the chance he’d waited for all of his years.

Shifting unsteadily, making sure that his footing was good, Tobaias waited until the dirt and roots beneath Lethaat’s feet were crunching just moments away, mere feet from his would-be assailant.  And, when the moment was right, Tobaias pounced, his ferocity and shout like that of a roaring panther.  

Lethaat, still deep in reflection, was immediately alarmed, and frightened.  He raised up his glaive and shield instinctively, not identifying his attacker at first, and blocked the first of Tobaias’ blows with a shield.  The weapon that Tobaias wielded was dull, but was a wooden shaft with a spear-head at its end, a poorly crafted weapon but one capable, nonetheless, of great harm.  The first jab had failed, but Tobaias would not be swept aside just yet.  He swung the great shaft sideways, bringing it across so that it would knock his cousin upside the head, and Lethaat stepped back, also instinctively, and swept out his own glaive.  

Overcome with the heat of the moment, and with surprise, Lethaat swept the bladed end downwards in a swift arc, catching Tobaias right behind the knees.  It was fortunate that Lethaat had been surprised and was acting on reflex alone, not predetermining or executing his actions with any degree of martial professionalism, because if he had, Tobaias would probably have ended up about a foot and a half shorter than he’d been before.  Instead, the broad side of it swept across the back of the boy’s knees, knocking Tobaias flat on his back with a sickening thud of body and light chain armor on dirt and lush grass.  

Tobaias coughed sharply as he landed, the wind knocked healthily out of him.  While his legs were still intact, the sharp back edge of the glaive had slipped just slightly run above the boy’s knees, across the back of his thighs, and there was a light cut drawn across both legs in a line curved slightly downward.  Tobaias tried to scramble to his feet, but as soon as he moved the glaive of his opponent and cousin was inches away from his face, and it was at this moment, with the mortal death-blow imminent and his attacker laid out before him, that Lethaat realized exactly who it was, and why he had come.

The glaive’s angle was corrected at once, and the deadly weapon was upright, the butt end of its shaft again on the ground like a walking stick.  Lethaat scowled, clearly annoyed with his cousin’s reckless behaviour, but extended a hand to the fallen youth.

“Get up,” he growled.

Tobaias gratefully took the hand of his cousin, still quite out of breath and energy, smiling with the exhiliration and adrenaline of the chase, and of the struggle.  It had been only seconds, and perhaps to the casual observer Tobaias might have been dreadfully outmatched, but he had actually succeeded in surprising Lethaat and triggering more than a casual, effortless retaliatory response.  It was progress.

“Thank you, kindly, cousin,” Tobaias remarked, using Lethaat’s hand as an anchor and pulling himself up to his feet, brushing dirt off of himself.

“Do not thank me,” Lethaat snapped, still frowning deeply and collecting his usually placid composure, “And do stop jumping out at me like that.  You are reckless, and lack proper control of your weapon, and your movements.  One of these days you, I promise, you are going to one of us killed.”

“Nonsense!” Tobaias chuckled, setting his own spear down like a staff, mirroring his cousin’s behaviour.  “You just don’t want to admit that I had you this time!  I got you, and got you good!  I swear, by the look on your face, cousin, you didn’t see me coming!”

Lethaat neglected to respond.  It was true, he hadn’t noticed Tobaias approaching at all.  His mind and his thoughts had been elsewhere, and perhaps therein lay an object lesson.  If Tobaias, after all, could sneak up on him, anyone could.  Perhaps, with Thaarien gone, more attention should be paid to his duties, and to vigilance in protecting the town.

“Cousin?” Tobaias asked, curiously, “Is something wrong?  You don’t look yourself.”

Lethaat turned, his eyes widening slightly.  Again, he’d been distracted, not alert to Tobaias’ words or presence.

“Forgive me,” he spoke, softly and soberly, “I dwell on ill things.  I should not have let myself be distracted so.  I could have hurt you, or someone else.”

“Again, I say, nonsense!” Tobaias laughed, heartily, moving closer and placing an arm around his serious, emotionally impregnable companion.  Lethaat looked perturbed, but made no move to remove the arm at first.  “We are both sons of Thaden, are we not?”

Lethaat smirked, wryly, and removed the arm with his shield hand, letting it drop harmlessly.

“Thaden has not lived in a thousand years,” Lethaat mused, “And I regret to inform you that, in your particular case, his qualities have been distinctly thinned over the last several generations.”

Tobaias frowned, slightly offended by the elder elf’s words, and crossed his arms as Lethaat proceeded to continue down the path, leaving him behind.

“Oh, of course!” Tobaias grumbled, “Again, the wise, strong, sword-guard Lethaat dismisses me!  Was I not your great rival, in my youth?  Did we not take up the sword together?”

“We did,” Lethaat acknowledged, smiling to himself as he enjoyed the usual banter and bickering that followed Tobaias’ failed attempts at besting him, though he would never admit such aloud, “But I dedicated myself to the sword, and you allowed yourself to become distracted.  You need practice.”

“Then let me have it!” Tobaias called out, running up alongside the other, “Let me join the guard!”

Lethaat sighed, deeply, knowing that inevitably this facet of Tobaias’ ambitions and interests would end up drawn into the conversation.

“To be a guard requires more than strength, or steadiness,” he spoke, “There is discipline, and courage, and the wisdom to stay your own hand.  All this, and more.  It does not come easily.”

“No, it does not!” Tobaias continued, his hands raised in an almost pleading gesture.  “So, cousin, let me join the guard!  Let me learn!  I wish only a fair chance.”

Lethaat opened his mouth and raised a hand, so that he might continue his own argument, but he was cut off swiftly by Tobaias, who ran out in front of him and blocked the path, causing the guard-captain to halt.

“You said that when I came of age, you would consider it,” Tobaias recalled, firmly, “And I am one hundred ten years old.  I am of age.  Why do you still hold this from me?”

Lethaat grimaced, at the mention of Tobaias’ age.  Tobaias had always been so young, so youthful, so childlike.  There was a naivety and innocence about the lad that was unquestionable and constant.  To realize and understand that Tobaias, too, was an adult and capable of making his own decisions and pursuing his own dreams was difficult for Lethaat.  How, then, must Thaarien have felt, all those years ago when Lethaat himself decided he wished to bear arms for Sirraven’s sake.  

The truth was that Lethaat had considered Tobaias’ request before, deeply, but was hesitant to allow his cousin entry into the guard.  He feared that others might see it as a sign of favoritism, or subjectivity.  He thought, perhaps, that the king or his vassals and councilmen might see in the action a lack of judgment, or discretion.  Tobaias wasn’t exactly a rogue, and wasn’t a disruptive fellow by any means.  He was a good, creative, artistic and contributive member of the city, and was well-liked.  

Tobaias, though, had always been very flippant, and very driven by his passions, ever changing, and Lethaat feared that his heart, when placed in a position as crucial to the town as its defense, would find that it did not satisfy him, and would pursue something else.  The fact remained that Tobaias had been asking for this for over thirty years, though - which, in itself, displayed a certain amount of dedication and desire.  Lethaat would never have made it to his own post if Thaarien had never given him the chance - perhaps, if only for Thaarien’s sake, the chance should be given to Tobaias, as well.

“I am ready,” Tobaias barked, holding his ground both physically and verbally, “I want this.”

Lethaat sighed, deeply, and frowned.

“There is more to this than want,” he explained, “To be in the guard is to be a servant, to these people, to Sirraven, and to the forest.  To all living and good things.  To put their good and their safety ahead of your own.”

“Oh, cousin,” groaned Tobaias, “There hasn’t been a war in thousands of years, and the last uprising was the days of Thaden.  Is it really that important to - ?”

Lethaat grabbed hold of his cousin by the arm, in frustration and annoyance, and dragged him along the path, which curved upward, currently, over a steep hill, with many trees.  Tobaias grumbled and struggled, but Lethaat finally held him firm on the hill’s peak, and motioned forward.

“Look,” Lethaat spoke, “What do you see?”

Tobaias had seen this site a thousand times, and would doubtlessly see it ten thousand more before he reached Enaiaus.  He glanced, outward, past the trees, and beneath the blue sky peppered with drifting, flat clouds, and what he saw was a moss-covered city wall, several large, ornate and rounded buildings, and a seamless, white spyre, vines and flowers running all along its surface, clinging to it as if children to a mother’s hand.  

“The city,” Tobaias mumbled.

“No, look at it,” Lethaat repeated, grabbing Tobaias, pointing forward, and dragging the lad closer to him, as if to identify a single trait or feature of the town that he could see, and Tobaias could not.  “What do you see?”

Tobaias paused, shrugging lightly.

“I see Sirraven,” he spoke, “And...it is just a city.”

“It is not just a city,” Lethaat continued, proudly, “It is beauty.  Everything you see here is the product of thousands of lives, over the course of thousands of years.  Each of those elves aspired to create something lasting, something precious, something for their children, each in their own way.  From the mightiest king to the lowliest tailor, my cousin, all us of dedicate our lives to being a part of that beauty...grace and elegance in all things, celebrating the creator herself, and the forest.  And protecting the forest.”  He paused, stepping away from Tobaias, giving the youth a chance to reflect on these things.  “And do you know why?”

Tobaias paused, for several long seconds, mulling over the thought deeply.

“Why?” he responded.

“Because we are elves,” Lethaat answered, “Created in the image of the mother-goddess herself.  Because we can do no less.  And because it falls to us to protect, and watch over things that cannot protect themselves.  The trees, the flowers, the wood.  It is our place.  To honor them, to celebrate them, and to protect them.”

He sighed, at long last, making his way down the path to Sirraven.

“If you wish a place in the guard, you shall have it,” Lethaat finally conceded.  The look of delight and excitement on Tobaias’ face, the reward for his long trial at long last produced.  For a moment, he looked on that hilltop as if he were to run down and embrace his countryman and family, but he did not.  For, before he could, Lethaat spoke again.  “I only ask, cousin, that you take up the sword for the right reasons.  For Sirraven.  For the goddess.”  Lethaat continued these first of the last steps in his march back home, the city in the near distance.  He called back to Tobaias, who was standing with a wide, splendid grin at the hilltop.  “And watch the city a little bit longer.  Really watch.  When you think you’re ready, I shall be at the spyre.”

Tobaias watched his cousin disappear, little by little, down the red dirt path, waiting until he was out of sight.  Yes, the city was beautiful, and yes, he would make contributions of his own to it, as a member of the Sirraven city guard.  Frankly, though, Tobaias was filled right now with joy and a spirit of exhiliaration at having, finally, fulfilled his dream of many years.  

He was a man of the guard, now!  A celebrated hero of the town!  Or he would be, soon, at any rate.  He let out a loud cheer, and then let himself fall back, his heart soaring as if upon the clouds above.  He laughed, until he landed with a sickening thud, knocking the wind cleanly out of himself again.  Tobaias groaned, sat upright, and then, content with having knocked himself silly, started as well to make his way back to the ornate stony gates.