Waterdancing

- - -

The dancer of some renown traced a circle of fire and walked a path on water every time she danced. The sun lapped at her legs and beat down on her face, all the while looking down on her like a caring parent. The dancer was an unlikely woman of unlikely origin, who gnawed at the corners of misconception and blazed a trail that belonged to her, and only her. First, she danced and slipped away from the veil that told a story of a highborn, pampered childhood. She ran her fingers along the blisters on her feet to remind herself she was too strong not to be weak sometimes. She touched her clothes and ruffled the frills and fingered the cloths and reminded herself what it felt like to wear rags.

Was she a mercenary? She seemed to not play the part. She could not bring herself to balance a haft on her palm and lift a blade to the ready. She was never seen clutching onto a lance. She refused to lift an axe to her shoulders. But she played the part of a mercenary, and she danced to ease the fatigue of her companions and move the world. When she danced, their pains was as hers; and, like hers, they drifted away when faced with the prospect of optimism.

Tethys chased after many things, and she was far from unaccustomed to being chased after. From the beginning, her struggles brought her strength, and the circumstances brought her to the Mercenaries' Guild. There, she lived her life, simply dancing; but, in every dance she bore in her breast little touches of reinvigoration, a little angel's kiss of love, and a little bit of her heart. Every day was a battle against the unsavory, and Tethys never lost.

Tethys was a warrior and a woman of the highest magnitude.

- - -

The mercenary warrior cut a swath of flame and trudged waist-deep in muddy waters as he fought. He was as seasoned as a young man could be, lacking the weathered cynicism of old veterans but possessing an understated measure of discretion in the way he viewed himself and the world around him. Lost was the foolish idealism of youth, now replaced with the cautious optimism of manhood and the preparation for the rest of his life.

The man never regretted living the life he lived. He held the mistakes he made in the past close to him and never forgot- never, ever forgot. In his mind he traced over the lines of his being and assessed his life. There, at the top of the tower of his life was a single light, shining bright like a beacon. There was a place far away from the blood and the war and the fire that consumed all of them daily. There was a place where he dashed across crystal waters with a powerful stride, and took the time upon the mirror-water to reflect on the simpler things. It was surely something his younger self would not have said. But his younger self would have seen himself controlling and amazing the mercenary company; not being enslaved by its duties.

He was a mercenary, a legend. The Desert Tiger was a fighter, a glory-seeker, a treasure-hunter, a vigilante champion and a master of the blades. But Gerik, he was merely a man, someone who lived for so many things but survived only on the simplest principles- on the fleeting faces who fanned the flames of gold, and on the solid self-satisfaction that came with a job well done, a woman well done, and another day of living.

There was something intrinsically real about the fighting side of the fighting mad that was far less glamorous than perhaps his younger self desired. There was something unnerving about the mind-numbingness of war and havoc. There was something frightening about watching the poor and defeated glimpse their own mortality, and this was something that perhaps his younger self would not have appreciated. That younger man would have traced the path to glory with a cotton finger and saw it paved with the blood of his enemies. The older man saw glory begin and end at the same moment, saw the path of blood paved with blood-- and wished for water instead.

In the end, it amounted to a job, and it followed the path of his skills, and it always ended up placing him no further than the great doors of the Guild.

Gerik was a warrior and a man of the highest magnitude.

- - -

You see 'em together, the dancer and the warrior, her arm wrapped around his, and you wonder how two people who are so different can be so close. A proud mercenary with a tough spirit and a strong arm. A beautiful dancer with unerring grace and a light heart. Is this only the vain unification of the handsome and the pretty?

You must remember these truths: Life begins at youth. Maturity comes not with age, but with experience. And, with sympathy comes empathy.

The dancer Tethys matured far before her time. Even at a tender age, she was a forager, a mother to her brother, and a dancer. She worked for whatever she could, and all the while she smiled, because whenever she smiled, her little baby brother smiled. From the beginning, she was challenged by hardships and taunted with success while failure was pushed down her throat. You can see how two orphaned children are not the likeliest to succeed, and how the dirtied streets are far from optimal to house optimism. You, smile now, and become her. Smile now.

Now delve deeper into their lives. Look at the young, soot-faced girl, how she steps so clumsily and begs so awkwardly for clemency from the better off. Look at her brother, bawling and crying from starvation, eager to clutch onto just one apple. Look at the girl beat her feet into the ground to put them up in a roofed house with a nice bowl of whatever substantial they can afford on a few stray coins.

They never seem to give up, do they? If faced with such anguish, what would you do? If you were left to fend for yourself on the dirty streets, sequestered in your own little well of angst, bereft of direction or friends or any blinking lights telling you where to go save for the blurry red lanterns hanging in the alley windows, what would you do?

Look deeper into his life now. You're a mercenary, a great warrior. You're greater than the world, and you have a lot of promise. Your sword arm is the greatest in all the land. Every enemy so far lays at your feet or in your wake, a victim of "great justice". But then, you meet a great knight and you finally get a glimpse of your mortality- your humanity. The greatest men- no, the greatest egotists- died at the height of their power because they expected least what they feared most: failure.

What would you do if you escaped certain death with just a scar tracing its way across your cheek, and a memory; a memory of a greater human being than you leering at you and pitying your little glass existence- what would you do?

Would you use your adversity to win your comfort? Would you use your failures to help you succeed?

Most of all, would you better understand the adversity of those around you?

In other words, would you be them?

You see 'em together, don't you? The dancer and the warrior. You walk up to them, maybe look them over, maybe speak to them, or ask them about their pasts, or about their love, or how they got together. Together, they trace lines of practicality across every facet of their lives, trace lines of passion to enrich the soul, trace lines of optimism to will a better future for themselves. Do you understand why their strength of character brings them closer? Do you understand why admiration, respect, and love are analogous terms? Do you understand the meanings of such simple tracings? Maybe you'll never understand, but…

Maybe you will.

- - -

"Hey, Chief."

The Chief looked up from the book he balanced in a single hand. He leaned back in his chair; his legs were crossed on the table, his face turned toward the crackling fire and to the figure silhouetted in fey shadows against the far wall. Gerik traced her outline and couldn't help breaking a smile.

"Yeah?"

"What do you see in your future?"

Gerik's smile widened a bit. He ran a finger across his parched lips and looked to the fire for an answer. The entire room was a perfect template for a quiet night of thinking: walls of wood and the fireplace of stone, and the old wooden furniture with the sanded grain and the cast-iron pots, and two fragile glass vases sitting in chairs. The only light there was the romantic fire, the shadow-caster that left them both in a romantic state of pensiveness. The very fibers of their being enjoyed the simplicity of just sitting and watching the embers burn down.

Gerik answered her question as honestly as he could, as honest as the truth, as unerring as the night; it was what she expected of him.

"Hmm…I don't really know. I couldn't say."

The woman sat sank low in her plush, cozy chair with its back to him. Gerik watched as the outline on the wall fidgeted a bit before settling back into place.

"Ha ha…but you know what you'd like to do in the future, right?"

Even since the beginning, he hadn't known the answer to that question. Taking up a sword, taking up the role of a mercenary was someone else's answer to that question- he had merely thought of it, was all. And now, he-- he merely shut his eyes and sighed gently. There was no right answer, only the first answer.

"I'd like to think that I…could walk on water. Maybe the Frelian coast…across the ocean. That I could just stride across and kick up the surf with my feet…maybe get some seafood, hit a couple of the taverns while I'm there, you know? And I could feel the wind at my back, and the sun lapping at my face, and catch a glimpse of a shadow dancing in my wake."

A startling silence broke, and then Tethys burst into laughter in the seat of her chair, the silhouette roaring and waving, her hair flying about gaily.

"Ah ha ha…" she spoke as her laughs tapered off, "That's funny! That's really funny, Chief…did you mean it?"

"Well, you asked me what I'd like to do."

The young woman got to her feet and moved around to the table where Gerik sat. The ebbs and flows of her voluminous evening gown scampered brilliantly behind; she traced her body gracefully across the floor and nearly did a pirouette into a chair. She brushed a lock of stray hair out of her face, giggled, and looked over at him. Amused, he returned the love with only his eyes and a chivalrous, playful wave of his hand.

"Ha ha…Chief, that's pretty deep. I didn't know you had such a romantic side. Well, I knew you had a romantic side, but I didn't quite expect this!"

"You've never known me to be an idealist, did you, Teth?"

Tethys shook her head and crossed her hands over the table.

"Well," Gerik continued, straightening his chair properly and looking her square in the eye. "I've never been much of an idealist, I suppose. I've been stupid and arrogant, but I've never been able to see dreams just as…dreams. I've always seen myself in a mercenary's garb."

He looked down at the casual black attire he wore now, ruffled it a bit, and looked off elsewhere- a clod of cloth still clutched in his hands.

"Hey Tethys. Have you ever wondered what would have happened if you had just made one decision differently? If one choice you made turned out even a bit differently than what it had…where would we all be?"

The subtle traces of solemnity in her face and in her voice told him that she understood him, that she respected it, that she took it seriously but not too seriously, and that she was going to reply with a satisfactory response in a matter of several sentences.

"Mmm…I don't know. So many little things come together to make up all of our lives, don't they? If I had never met my dancer…if I had never chose to follow that dancer…if my mother and father never left us…"

Gerik smiled a little bit, because the words were so heartwarming and so close to him. And, because that was the kind of thing he would say too, the kind of things he would feel, and the way in which he would answer. He smiled a little bit more.

"And," he added, almost as an afterthought though both of them knew it was not, "If something had gone differently, we might not"-

They answered in a perfect unison, "-have met each other-"

Both broke into a comfortable laughter, and he reached out a stone hand to clasp with both of hers, and they laughed and chuckled and looked at each other, more and more and more.

After a while, they settled back down into the little whittle-wood chairs at the table and sat in introspection, the smiles not leaving their faces but perhaps mellowing just a bit.

"Ewan doing alright?" the Chief asked off-handedly.

"He's doing fine. He's training with Saleh up in the valley right about now."

"Ah, really? Good man…good man…"

Tethys grinned, saw he shared the look, and felt warm in her chair. She felt that there was a lot being said just sitting here quietly, hands clasped in his.

"I think," Gerik said at last, "that maybe I'll be a mercenary 'till I die."

The mercenary took a flat tone with his statement, a little bit of fatalism soaked in just a little bit of irony and a large amount of optimism. He still hadn't come to a satisfactory answer to her earlier question, but he at least chose to think that maybe he'll find it someday. In any case, his woman's hands were warm and comforting.

Tethys nodded. "I understand, Gerik. And no matter what you choose, there will always be good things, and great things, and better things waiting for you…"

"For us."

She chuckled. "Yes, for us."

"But, even so," he added with the faintest traces of humor, "maybe in-between we'll do a little something interesting, huh? Maybe take a trip to Frelia…have some seafood, hit a few taverns, see a few women,"- she laughed and smiled and understood- "and maybe we can dance together on the surface of the water."

Tethys widened her smile, took both his hands in hers and squeezed gently. "I'd like that."