Lesson #2: Limits

"You're still mad at me?"

It wasn't so much a question as an observation. For Mark, having stopped at a Bernese Inn and retired to his room while the rest of the soldiers made merry in the Great Hall, this was his first chance to speak privately with Lyn since the…incident…during morning training.

"You humiliated me in front of the entire company!"

"Humiliation is an illusion of the ego. It does not exist."

"You wouldn't be saying that if you were the one…"

"…who thought I had reached a level where I was fast enough and strong enough to overcome a fighter who looked down upon me; unfairly, I presumed, because I am not a big muscle-bound lug of a man. Only to find when we crossed blades that his abilities far exceeded my own, and have my master throw it in my face before all my peers? To realize that all those times he looked down it wasn't because he didn't know what I was capable of; it was because he knew exactly what I was capable of?"

Lyn looked like she was about to cry. The bruise on her face still hadn't healed, although Serra had mended the damage beneath. A man of softer affections would have found Lyn's pouting pitiable, and perhaps made some conciliatory gesture. Or reminded her that she was still the strongest woman he knew; that would have brightened her mood. But as far as Mark was concerned, his job wasn't to make Lyn like him. His job was to make her stronger.

"It happened to me more times than I could count when I was a green-cloak," Mark took a swig of tavern ale, as he often did when he recalled his apprenticeship. "I achieved the rank of grandmaster because every time it happened, I learned something. What did you learn today?"

"…I learned that my master is a mean-spirited bastard…"

"You knew that the first time we met," Mark quipped. The day Lyn had been taken by Batta the Beast—the day their fateful journey had begun—Mark had cut down three men with a single slash and electrocuted them in their own blood. "What did you learn TODAY?"

"…a lesson in dodging?" Lyn ventured a guess.

"No. Well…not entirely…" Mark poured another tankard and passed the drink to Lyn, who accepted the closest thing to an I'm Sorry that she knew she was going to get. "If I wanted to teach you that and only that, there were other ways. What did you learn from fighting Hector that you could not have learned any softer way?"

"…I don't know…" Lyn admitted after a long pause.

"Then I will tell you a story," Mark took another swig of ale. "Once there was a man named Illion. Illion was strong-of-arm-a woodcutter from a small village in Araphen—and as sure as any man could be that so long as he had his trusty axe, no man could best him. Illion's village was in the territory of the Shatterskull Bandits. The Marquess was a cruel man and sent no knights to aid them. Illion was a simple man of simple means, but he wanted to help his village, so with his hatchet and his hopes he set out to challenge the bandit Leader, Thraxus the Cleaver. Thraxus gutted him and strung him up by his bowels before sending him back to his village and burning it to the ground."

"That's a horrible story," Lyn drank to forget her own.

"Now I will tell you another," Mark continued. "There was a man named Kattam from a village near Illion's. He too was a woodcutter, and he had the same thought as Illion. One day with axe in hand, he snuck upon the bandit's camp meaning to kill their leader. Kattam took one look at Thraxas and fled, knowing that if they crossed blades he would surely die. Kattam returned home and vowed that he would train in the ways of battle until he was strong enough to complete his task. He joined a mercenary company and learned the ways of sword-and-shield from a dishonored knight among their ranks. He earned gold with which to buy a suit of armor; this too he trained to use, until he could move in mail as tirelessly as in leather and direct axe blows to where he knew they would not cut. Armored and trained Kattam returned to the bandit's camp, slew Thraxus, and mounted is head on a spike while his villagers sang and danced.

"Now…" Mark put down his drink and looked Lyn dead in the eye. "What did you learn?"

"…I am strong, and I am becoming stronger. But the only way I get stronger is if know my limits; if I fight only the battles I have the strength to win, and avoid the fights I can't until my training is complete."

"Yes," Mark counseled. "When your training is complete, no man who has not achieved Limit Break will be able to stand against you. But the strongest grandmasters aren't grandmasters because of the battles they won along the way. The strongest grandmasters are grandmasters because of the battles they never fought."

"I understand," Lyn put down her mug and for the longest time stared at the hearthfire, saying nothing. "…When do you think that will be?" she finally added.

"A grandmaster may train for many lifetimes in The Outrealms before achieving Limit Break. Some will train this way and never achieve it all. Some are simply incapable of achieving it."

"Will I?"

"You have the capability to achieve it; this you should not doubt. If you follow the path I have shown you, you WILL achieve it."

"But When?"

"When and how I cannot say; it is different for everyone," Mark resumed his drinking. "The only hard-rule is that you must first be conditioned to peak human perfection in every attribute; strength of body, keenness of mind, and fortitude of spirit. Then and only then can you break the human limit and reach the next level. Some achieve it through meditation. Others achieve it through heroic feats. Others still achieve it under pressure, in a moment of great grief or trauma. The paths diverge, but they all lead back to the same place."

"… You never told me…How did you do it?" Lyn asked, expecting no answer. (intimate details about his own past were things Mark rarely disclosed)

"Mark?"

"...that's a story for another day…" Mark answered, and Lyn knew then that try as she might to pry he would say no more. "Just as well. I believe we are about to have a guest."

"How do you know?"

"Because I listen," Mark chided. And then there was a knock on the door. "Enter Marcus! What news?"

The door swung open and the Knight-Stewart of Pharae entered scowling. "Milord!" he announced. "There was a commotion in the Great Hall that I thought should be brought to your attention at once. Raven and Lucius were seen being…errrr…intimate. It appears the locals do not share your progressive attitude on such things."

"How appropriate; I was just lecturing Lyn on limits," Mark sighed. "What are the damages?"

"Raven broke a man's nose and destroyed a barstool when they were confronted," Marcus reported. "Lucius mended it and Lord Eliwood paid the innkeeper for the cost of the stool. He handled the situation most diplomatically. We'll be allowed to stay the night, provided there are no more incidents."

"Is that all?"

"No, milord. Theres more," Marcus continued. "I'm afraid the young master was overheard speaking to the innkeeper by Bernese soldiers. He spoke too much like a prince; they now suspect that we have Lycian lords in our company and that we are more than common soldiers-for-hire."

"Have they made a move yet?"

"No. But we are being watched."

"Then we must make our next move carefully," Mark rose.

"Lyndis; leave the inn—quietly—and get to the top of that bell tower we passed. Scout for enemy movement and report back; follow the highroad north by west out of town if we're already gone. Take Guy with you. Marcus; with me!"

The thing about bar fights, Mark knew, was that they escalated quickly and didn't end with gentle apologies. He quickened his stride.

"Your plan?" Marcus asked.

"…gauge the situation and proceed from there. If we're being watched, we are at risk. But leaving quickly will arouse further suspicion," Mark reasoned. "What we do next depends upon the situation in the hall. I would see it myself."

…So see it he did. A man with an icepack on his nose was staring ruefully at a corner bench, where Raven and Lucius were now keeping a prudent distance.

…Dorcas and Oswin were arm-wrestling.

…Canas was attempting to educate Bartre.

…Sain was getting chummy with the serving girls.

…Kent and Fiora were judging Sain.

…Serra and Priscilla were trying to make Florina bet which one of them Erk would fall for first, while Erk sat alone reading his tomes and showing neither of them any interest.

…Rebecca was pretending she was talking to Lowen so that Wil wouldn't ask her to dance.

…Matthew was cheating at a game of dice.

…Hector was…

Oh Gods No. Damn it, Hector.

And that was the last thought Mark had time to think before he knew exactly what had to be done next and shouted "TO ARMS!"