Chapter 4
Crimson Past, Crimson Future
Rizo gazed at his own reflection in the blade of the weapon--examined his wrinkles, watched those soulful eyes examine him. His two fingers passed over the hilt; the texture had distant familiarity, like a dream. Had it really been that long? Had it really been that long since he locked souls with it, since the two had danced, had hewn, had scarred, in the name of those lost principles for which he had once zealously fought? It had been long enough for him to find some glint of peace and raise a family in this secluded community. In all of those years, the gladius had hung high on his wall, watching as his daughter grow up and his wife grow old. But it can't watch over them forever. And neither can I.
"Rizo?"
To his satisfaction, the boy had been prompt. He'll do well.
"Please, sit down, Tarun," said Rizo, his back still turned. The boy resigned to the nearest armchair, eying the sword as well, as he always did here in its presence, dreaming of its history. As Rizo recalled that history--not the fantastical one conjured in the boy's imagination, where, Rizo surmised, fair play and heroics prevailed, but the dark images in Rizo's memory--he felt a long-harbored sorrow nip his soul, and suddenly he could not believe that he had held onto the weapon; it was the knife a butcherer, the emblem of his blood-spattered history.
This sword has slain more than it has saved.
And it wasn't all mathematics. Light hearts, dark hearts--it had not mattered; this blade had targeted indiscriminately. Some victims had been criminals of life, those bloodthirsty individuals who take for the sake of taking. They, perhaps, had deserved it. But for the others, it had been their convictions, ideologies that contested too greatly with his own. Like a god, he had judged them to be incompatible with his perceptions of logic, and, with a well-placed incision by the sword, they had been eradicated.
But perhaps the weapon's future would delineate from its past. Tarun seemed noble enough. He was not to type to take life so drastically as Rizo once did, wise enough to flee instead of fight if circumstances called for it. But Rizo only knew the boy's character within the confines of Selorn. Who knew how the boy's virtues would be warped by the corruption of the outside world? What if the child's supposed wisdom should reveal itself to be merely masked cowardice? Could this adolescent distinguish between the time for bloodshed and the time for selflessness?
"I need to know something, boy," Rizo said, surprised by the darkness of his own voice. He stared deeply into the weapon, then into Tarun's eyes. Perhaps there was something in them besides the twinkle of the flames. But perhaps age was making him delusional.
"What is it?" said Tarun, who was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. They stared at each other through the reflective blade.
"I need to know if I can trust you."
Tarun gave him a quizzical look.
Rizo swallowed. "Tarun...you're fast approaching adulthood. Soon, you will be in the very midst of feelings that you may not be entirely familiar with yet. Ambition. Unrest. Love."
Tarun's eyes flickered.
"And with adulthood comes certain responsibility. It is your duty--to your friends and family--that you keep your ambition in check, control your unrest, and protect the ones you love."
Now the boy's eyes swept to the gladius. Rizo continued. "I don't know what your plans are from here, but whatever you choose to do, always keep that latter rule in mind, for it is your greatest duty. As much as your ambition expands, and however your unrest grows, remember to always protect the ones you love. Especially the one you hold dearest to your heart."
For the first time, their eyes tore off the weapon and met each other. Complete and utter comprehension.
"I will protect her," said Tarun.
Rizo turned. "Which is why I'm conveying this--this, the same blade that has watched over her for her entire life--to you, that you may carry it for the same purpose, that you may release its fury when it calls upon you."
"But sir," Tarun protested, "what will I ever need it for?"
"Tarun, I know of your aspirations. I can see it in your eyes. They're your father's eyes."
Tarun breathed. "You knew my father."
Rizo nodded. "He was ambitious too--always wanted to see the world. So do you, and I know you wish to take my daughter with you. And, although I wish this were not true--you are much needed hand here on the farm, and I love my daughter more than anything in the world--but it would be unrighteous to smother the spirit of so young a man, when I, too, was once endowed with as similar spirit.
"And do not fool yourself into thinking that these are peaceful times. A hungry darkness always awaits to consume this realm, and there are things that, in your inexperience--of which, inoffensively, you have much--that may require the touch of this blade. But be forewarned. Use it when needed, for life is as precious as it is fragile.
"Now, boy, I need you vow." He sheathed the gladius and brought it before Tarun. "To use this blade wisely. To protect my daughter, whatever ill fate should confront her."
"I do so vow," Tarun said as he accepted the weapon. Rizo felt an immense burden slide from his shoulders as the transfer proceeded. Tarun nodded, and made to leave. Rizo felt sick inside, as if he had given a piece of himself to the boy. Here he was, an old man without a sword, without his legend, with only his death to brood over for whatever years preceded it.
Suddenly feeling very awkward, Rizo said, "And don't forget that you're not going anywhere until you finish building that fishing boat."
"What fishing boat?" Tarun said on his way out.
"Remember chopping up all that wood?"
The boy grimaced. Rizo chuckled and showed him to the door, but Tarun stopped short at the threshold.
For a moment, Rizo hoped that the sword would be returned, that he may remake his legend, or at least dance with the weapon one more time in the starlight. But Tarun held it tightly, and Rizo could feel no bitterness to him. Fate had ordained the transaction.
"My father," Tarun began, spoken as if his father was comparable to a god in magnificence and mystery. "What was he like?"
The words were cataclysmic; Rizo's blood fled from his extremities and refuged into his sinking heart. The grief, the agony, the remorse he had felt over what he had done! And with the same sword that he now passed to the man's own son!
"He was the greatest man I ever knew."
Rizo's eyes murdered Tarun's curiosity. There would be no more questions from the boy; only those swirling perpetually in the old man's soul.
And so, Tarun turned and left with the gladius, unaware of its crimson past.
Unaware of its crimson future.