Welcome to Divide, my friends. Before we get started, I would like to thank my brother (who probably won't view this but whatever) for making the cover. Now without further ado, Divide. No that wasn't a command; just read the story.
Arlen swung at the training dummy in front of him, never missing and always striking to kill. It was before dawn at the training ground of Cathalorn. This is where the village guard would learn the ways of combat if it were that time, which it was not. Right now he was practicing to shake off a nightmare.
His nightmare was terrible. It showed him all the battles he had won but instead showed him losing. It showed every danger successful in taking his life or the life of one of his companions. In that dream he'd been stabbed, frozen, burned, destroyed with magic, lost his mind, or someone else suffering a similar fate. In reality they had won every battle, but now he saw how vulnerable they had been and was scared.
They should have lost. Facing enemies ten times stronger than them with magic at their side should not have been as easy as it was. Was it fate, luck, or the divine that chose who won or lost because he always thought it was skill. The world seemed so much simpler before his adventures and now it was nothing but complicated.
After his last stroke against the dummy he lowered his sword. It had been hit enough and would give him no more skill than what he already had. He stabbed Mor'ranr—his Elven sword—into the ground and said to himself, "Who won those battles?"
He stood there for a few seconds before the sun came up over the horizon. He could feel its warmth on his back and saw its light on the ground. He took a second to bask in the heat of the sun after such a cold night before noticing the shadow of a person on the ground behind him with a sword. He assumed it was an enemy and drew his sword up from the ground and swung it at the person behind him. He misjudged both the location of the shadow's owner and the owner herself.
He actually felt rather silly now, swinging at his own mother. Her form could not be mistaken for that of a warrior's, though her gaze could and the way she held her longsword also could. "So this is what you've learned," she said, "to attack anyone who looks like a warrior?"
Arlen frowned at her. "You shouldn't have snuck up on me like that," he said. "Though I am sorry I swung at you, the blame may not be entirely mine."
She scoffed. "You're also being rude to your mother."
Arlen looked at the longsword and was confused. He didn't know she had one. "Where did you get that?" he asked.
"I have kept this sword for many years," she explained. "Your father had it forged for Gratian and… well, I have kept it ever since."
He was surprised with her. "You had it all this time and you never said anything?"
She nodded. "Your father knew, but he didn't care. Or if he did, he didn't show it. Your father went through more than most men do. He was in the thick of war only to return home and lose a son. He lost his own father to war and turned the hurt into a story for you youngsters. You've lost plenty too."
"Have I?" he asked.
"You lost a brother when you were young and a father when you were older," she said. "You lost a friend, your sword, and more than a few fights. If anyone has a right to be mopey, it's you." She then raised her sword to attack and said in a fierce tone he had never heard her speak in before, "But you're not going to mope or I'll kill you."
Arlen raised his sword just in time to parry her attack. She then attacked again and again until he grabbed her wrist and she punched him in the gut. He staggered back and she said, "If you can't win against your own mother, who will you win against?"
Arlen shook his head. "Whatever you're doing it won't work," he said. "I'm not going to kill you."
"I'm not trying to get you to kill me; I'm trying to get you useful again," she said. "Now come home. Breakfast is waiting."
He sheathed his sword after she did—as he didn't entirely trust her with that thing—and followed her home. When they got there he looked at the familiar porch, the logs of the walls, and the cobblestone foundation. They were things he had known since he was a child, with the exception of a patch over the wall of Ehren's room. This was home.
The house had been a home to his family for four generations, ever since his great-grandfather built it for himself and his bride-to-be. Now it housed Arlen, his brother Ehren, his mother Emera, and Herbst—currently just a guest until he could find another place to rest his head or keel over. It was a mansion by the standards of Cathalorn with four bedrooms, a kitchen, a dining room, attic, and cellar. While he had seen fancier homes, he'd rather spend a year here than the rest of his life in one of those.
He came in and found a bit of a feast waiting for him. Pork and oranges were on the table with a pitcher of milk in the center. They didn't usually have such great foods, but this was mostly food leftover from Embry's wedding and they needed to get through it before it went bad.
Arlen took a couple of slices of ham and an orange to start with and poured a cup full of milk. As he got his food he noticed something. "Where is everyone else?" he asked.
"Ehren was called away to mediate a little dispute they're having with one of the new houses," his mother replied, serving herself a plate. "Someone vandalized it in the night, it seems." As she sat down she said, "And your guest is still sleeping. Why I'm even allowing his like in Embry's old room is beyond me."
"He was a sure and steadfast companion through many adventures," Arlen replied. "The least I can do is offer him a place to rest until he figures on how he'll reclaim whatever business he had before he left."
"He had none," she told him. "His wife, Fayre, worked as a healer. He did nothing though, and has no trade to go back to."
"But surely he worked before he married her?"
"He was a lumberjack until a tree he felled fell on him and broke his back. Fayre did her best, but he could never lift heavy stuff again, an essential part of lumberjacking." That certainly explained why he would never carry as much as the others. "I don't know why, but I think she pitied him in that way, and that's why she married below her station."
Arlen understood what she meant. A tradesman—or woman—was expected to marry one who was from a family of a similarly respectable trade; farmers married the daughters of farmers; carvers married the daughters of cobblers; the high ranking folks married others of high ranking families. In all that, a healer and a lumberjack were not equals in the slightest, rather on completely different ends of the list.
Though Arlen could see through that, saying, "There have been exceptions, Mom. Class doesn't dictate everything, remember?"
"Perhaps, but your father and I followed it and that's good enough for me."
They continued through the meal with little conversation. The ham was good, and seasoned with spices he didn't know the names of. Sometimes it was good to have a trader as a brother—brother after a fashion anyway. Once he was done he was quite satisfied.
After his mother finished her breakfast she stood up and said, "Now, Arlen, I'm going to whip you into shape like I did for your father when he came back from the war. You're going to be a man worthy of your father's blood when I done with you."
Arlen leaned back in his chair and asked, "And how are you going to do that?"
"By going on an adventure of our own," she said. "We're going to Ceunon."