Chapter Nine: Way of the Swordsman
1300 Units, 68th Day of the Sun's Embrace, Twelfth Cycle (1st Age of Restoration) \
Sanghelios, Urs Triplate System
State of Fehum, Ilima
"You are the lightning bolt," the tall golden-armored Sangheili declared, bringing his thick wooden stave swinging down towards his young son's head. The young Sangheili, barely ten cycles old, raised his own stave and managed to block his father's blow.
"You strike hard," the Sangheili in the golden armor feinted another overhead blow, only to switch it to an undercut at the last second, darting in under his son's raised stave and delivering a sharp blow to the abdomen. The youngling gasped in pain, but knew better than to retreat, raising his stave in a defensive pose once again.
"You strike fast," the father's stave connected with the back of his son's skull, making the youngling see stars.
"You strike fear into the hearts of your enemies, and awe into those of your friends," the golden Sangheili manipulated his stave like a baton, twirling it past his son's guard and connecting with his arm with a loud thwack. He drew the stave along his son's arm and twisted it, sending his son's stave flying.
The youngling hung his head and looked down at the ground, flinching ever so slightly and waited inevitable for the beating which was sure to follow…only it never came. His father crouched down in front of him and placed a finger under his chin, tilting his head up. "Look at me," the older Sangheili said in a softer, kinder tone.
"I have failed you again," the youngling sniffed despondently, barely holding eye contact with his father. For several months, his father had been training him in the ways of the sword. He learned the combat forms first before his father began to fight him one-on-one with wooden staves, adopting a more hands-on style of teaching. His son had yet to come remotely close to besting him. However, despite the inferiority of his skill compared to that of his father's, he would probably be able to take on anyone unpracticed with the blade, but the youngling was ignorant to that fact.
"You are thinking too much," the golden-armored Sangheili said to his son, "You still attempt to fight as if you are holding a weapon, but that is not the way of the swordsman. A swordsman does not fight with a sword; he fights with an extension to his arm. You are not holding a stave; you are holding an extension to your arm. There is no 'you', and there is no stave; the two are one, and the one is all. Now," the father stood up and retrieved his son's stave, picking it up and tossing it over, "Clear your mind. Cleanse yourself of distractions and try again. Do not hold your blade, be your blade."
The youngling held up his stave and crouched down slightly, lowering his center of gravity, and waited for his father to strike.
"You are the lightning bolt," the golden-armored Sangheili proclaimed, steadily circling around his son, his stave at the ready, poised to attack, "The lightning bolt is unpredictable," he asserted, leaping forward and landing a sharp blow on his son's leg before retreating out of the way to avoid the retaliatory lunge.
"The lightning bolt is unpredictable," the father repeated, "It can strike anywhere…anytime—"
The youngling let out a furious cry and charged his father, twirling the stave over his head before lunging for his father's midsection. The golden-armored zealot effortlessly deflected the blow, thrusting his own stave forward towards his son's abdomen, but the youngling had already twisted out of the way. The zealot's stave only clipped his son's hip. The youngling, out of pure instinct and reflex stimulated by months of sparring, brought his stave about and landed a blow on his father's outstretched arm.
The zealot took a large stride forward, locking his and his son's staves between their bodies. He stared into his son's eyes for a full second before drawing his mandibles back in a smile. "Well done, Niro, you have just severed my sword-arm, leaving me—while not dead—temporarily stunned; ample time for you to have finished me off had this been a real fight for your life."
"I…I…" Niro 'Ovarum gazed up at his father, nearly speechless at his achievement. Finally, after months and months of grueling, exhausting, painful sparring bouts, he had just had a breakthrough!
"Enough practice for today," the zealot told his son, "Let us retire for the day."
The Heliosii, the collective name of the three suns of Sanghelios, were now high in the sky; at the point when the day was at its hottest, and a good time to cease strenuous outdoor activity until they began to set in the east.
The father and son picked up after themselves and walked back across the wide open field behind their home and into the house. The house was a smaller dwelling; only two stories tall and fairly averaged-size. It was a bit larger than its neighbors, but it was certainly wasn't nearly as large as the homes of other zealots.
Iram 'Ovarumee was something of a fluke among his fellow zealots, preferring a rustic, average home as opposed to the opulent holds in the center of large towns and cities where most of the other zealots made their abode. He had fought against too many enemies for too long to be able to, in good conscience, live in a wealthy house, instead opting to settle down in the village of Sage with a good number of his former soldiers. It was a good, simple, peaceful life, one which 'Ovarumee could live out and die a happy person.
Unfortunately, like all good things in life, it wasn't going to last.
The zealot sent his son upstairs and headed into the kitchen, where his wife was busy preparing the room for dinner, which she would start cooking in a few hours' time. Her name was Quenya, and she had been married to the zealot for nearly twelve cycles. She didn't have the easiest life or the most pleasurable, but she was still satisfied with her lot. There were thousands of ways for it to be worse, and the pros always outweighed the cons.
Iram 'Ovarumee had been a mere ultra back in those days, on leave on Sanghelios following the extremely costly victory on Reach, a human world, when he met his future wife. They had known each other previously as younglings, but before anything could spark, Iram had been whisked away to join the Covenant military, a custom for most male younglings born to soldiers.
They had petitioned the assistance of a Cleric during his shore-leave and had swiftly married. After all, there was a good chance that he would never return after his leave was over.
He had fought on Installation 05 alongside a mixed unit of spec ops Sangheili and Kig-Yar snipers, combating the Flood for the duration of the conflict. When the Jiralhanae, or brutes as the Humans called them, had turned on his kind, sparking the Great Schism and the eventual alliance with the humans, he had personally slaughtered all of the Loyalist Kig-Yar in his unit who attempted to turn their rifles on his men.
But, the rest is history. The war ended later the next year, 'Ovarumee returned home along with the other surviving Separatists warriors, and was bestowed with the rank of Zealot. Amidst many other changes in society, the 'ee' suffix, dropped after the Great Schism, was reinstated to label the new 'Sangheili' military, replacing the old military of the Covenant.
'Ovarumee was able to settle down for a few years with his wife. Together, they had their son and had started to build a new life for themselves. However, the High Council had grown tired of the surviving brutes' numerous attempts to attack Sangheili and Human worlds, so 'Ovarumee and several other zealots were ordered to take their fleets to the brute homeworld of Doisac, interrupting his life once more. The battle had been brief, but bloody. The brute planet had ended up being partially glassed as a warning to the species of vile savages.
"Finished banging logs already?" Quenya 'Ovarum grunted as her husband entered the kitchen, giving her shoulder an affectionate stroke.
"He is improving greatly," 'Ovarumee mused, "He managed to score a winning hit."
"That reminds me, one of his friends stopped by a few minutes ago, wondering if Niro wanted to hunt for helioskrills in the Nether," Quenya informed her husband, "If you are finished with him, I was going to let him go."
'Ovarumee inclined his head in a nod, clicking his mandibles in pleasure as he recalled memories of his childhood when he had gone helioskrill-hunting in the twisted, maze-like canyon known as the Nether several miles away from this town. Helioskrills were medium-sized predators with thick, smooth, gray fur. In order to feed, they would sit stone-still and imitate a rock until an unsuspecting meal came along. Hunting the creatures was a favorite pastime of Sangheili younglings.
"Oh, and your brother will be arriving here momentarily," Quenya added, smirking as 'Ovarumee nearly choked in surprise.
"What?! I thought Imos was serving with the fleets; what is he doing—"
Quenya raised an eyebrow, turning to face her husband, "Do you honestly think he told me why he was coming?" she shrugged and turned back to the counter, "Well he hinted at it. Something to do with the Clanmeet at Fehum Keep tonight."
'Ovarumee snorted at the mention of the clanmeet. Clanmeets were gatherings held at the ruling keep of every state. Aristocrats, elders, and the occasional zealot would attend these meetings to discuss matters of politics and welfare. 'Ovarumee, true to his warrior's nature, had no patience for such gatherings and did not attend them.
Just as he was opening his mouth to reply, Niro bounded down the stairs and entered the kitchen. "Can I go, now?" he asked.
"The helioskrills are nasty biters," 'Ovarumee cautioned his son, "Count your fingers and memorize the number. I want you to return here with no less than the amount which you counted now," he asserted sternly before murmuring, "Now, go have fun."
Niro 'Ovarum's face and eyes lit up, his mandibles twitching with excitement. "I'll be back later tonight!" he hollered over his shoulder as he hurried out of the kitchen and darted out of the house to catch up with his friends.
'Ovarumee watched him go, a smile spreading across his face. He sighed and turned back to his wife. "One thing I envy about the Humans is their families," he muttered, "Others consider me a fluke for living and training with my own son, yet it is considered normal, natural for Human families…We are not part of the Covenant any longer and we are no longer ruled by warlords like we were before the San-Shyuum rained fire upon us; why should we continue to adhere to the old customs?"
Quenya slipped her hand into her husband's, saying, "You aren't the only one who is bringing about change, and you won't be the last! We have been part of the Covenant for a thousand cycles and ruled by warlords by tens of thousands more; it will take more than eleven cycles of this new age to change our ways."
'Ovarumee grunted, agreeing with his wife but at the same time impatient with the notion of long-term changes. He wanted society to evolve now, not in fifty or one hundred cycles.
Just as he was about to leave the kitchen, there was a sharp knock on the front door. 'Ovarumee strode through the hallway and into the entrance chamber, opening the door to reveal a tall Sangheili—not as tall as himself, but close—clad in the pure white armor of an ultra.
The zealot grinned. "It has been quite some time, brother," 'Ovarumee embraced the ultra, clapping him on the shoulder, "Look at you; already an ultra and serving in a new fleet! What in the name of the Gods brings you here?"
Imos 'Ovarumee returned the embrace and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "Well met, indeed…how's the family?" he asked after shouting a greeting to Quenya, who hollered back in response.
"Never better," 'Ovarumee chuckled, "You just missed Niro; he went out helioskrill-hunting with some of his friends."
The two brothers conversed for a few minutes, trading stories and tales of their exploits for the past few cycles before Imos got down to business and started talking about his purpose for being in Fehum. "I was reassigned to the Fleet of Ambivalent Transgression…your Fleet."
It was 'Ovarumee's turn to cock an eyebrow, confusion showing in his eyes. "My Fleet was dissolved after the attack on Doisac," the zealot reminded his brother.
Imos shook his head. "It's being mobilized once more…I came here to inform you that the clanmeet at Fehum Keep tonight is no normal clanmeet; a representative of the High Council will be there. As a Fleet Master, you are required to attend."
'Ovarumee shrugged. "I never went to those things because politics do not agree with my stomach or brain…but if the High Council is involved, it must be serious…alright, I'll go with you. But not unless you stay for a quick meal; if you were anymore famished than you look now, I'd have to call in the town Healer!"
Imos moistened his mandibles eagerly, recalling memories of Quenya 'Ovarum's cooking. "Well, brother, I won't insult you and your wife by refusing!"
'Ovarumee followed his brother into his house, digesting what little information he had gleaned from the conversation. The fact that his old fleet was being mobilized was troubling news, and he was worried that he might be called out to lead it in battle once more.
How long would he be away from his wife, son, and friends this time?