Private Winter:

Intro: Fire and Swords

A/N: I want to get into Tseng's head a little more and detail the differences between the Continental and Wutia cultures. I also want to tell a bit of his past and bring some of his perspectives to the proverbial table. Hence this story. BTW the idea was inspired by a story I'm currently reading by another author on this site. I'd thank the author but I'm at a loss as to the title for the moment. Something about wolves… the author's story (thus far) centers on a ritual to find one's "spirit animal" and Tseng gets a winter wolf. On the next chapter I'll correct that oversight.

Steel was said to be hot, warmed with the blood of enemies, held in the hands of warriors filled with passion. The sword was the archaic form of execution, sword and flame, and the forging fire. All were symbols to the Continental mind, all were linked, and like most Continental symbology it was all most primitive and linked by the blatant chains of cause and effect.

Heat the stone, warm the blade, the blood of the living was warm, the blood of the hater is warmer than that of the mundane soul.

Thus, with such beginning truths as a template, blades and flames become intertwined forever more.

But few consider the sword in its stages. Yes, it is born of the flames, but the fire is cooled in icy water. Sired in passion, tempered in pain, immersed in chill calculation, many swords don't survive the blows and the depths. The flawed shatter, and the pieces are then buried, and life moves on.

None of that is expressed in the wild-eyed romantic's tale. And despite his studious detached manner he does dabble in the frivolous. In younger days many such romances graced the shelves of his home. No longer now. For when the rhythm and rhyme of such works became obvious his interest –and amusement- in them declined. Swift as wind, chill as a winter touched carrion, he had simply picked those flawed texts from his shelves and expelled them from his walls.

In their place hung emptiness, not nostalgia, for nostalgia is never permitted. Nostalgia implies weakness, a fondness for a place and time in the past. In this world where the present –not the past- hold the most relevance he does this much to toe in line. The fickle aspects of his past are quickly discarded, leaving no trace of their passing.

And life moves on.

But, unlike the handful of present obsessed in his acquaintance, he does not discard the significant. The Rootless and the damned, only the thin skin of life divides them, and the life stream being savage and glorious as it is one can cross that fluid line and never realize that this time it is the final crossing. So he buries the relevent past, and nurtures it. Knowing from expereince that truth will rise like trees from the depths of his subconcious as needed.

One truth, fast to rise, impossible to uproot, has been duty. He adheres to the hard course, honesty is uttered in a stark glory that resembles the Stream which Leviathan lies. That hardness, that bluntness and abruptness, are the trademarks of cruility born from nessecity. Not all trees sprout in spring after all. And his mind has endured a multitude of winters.

His manner is so chill -like the edge of good still yet to be warmed by the bracing hand of a warriror- that those in his aquantince say that it is a wonder his very life breath does not steam upon the air. To those jests he shrugs, rolling off the good natured mannerisms of others as if it were water from his back.

In truth, it is less than water. But humor seems to be the main form of comunication amongst these strange people. And -bitter truth is told best with candor- humor is better than the few alternatives offered by extreame passion.

Balance in endulgence is a idea new to these people, not forgotten, but oddly enough, new. The rival civilization of his mother's blood is a young one, despite all it's years. And he finds that oddly frightening. But take in effect the matter of upbringing. Having been raised on stories of men driven to maddness and death by an over abundance of indulgence and passion from the youngest age does instill a sense of serenity in one's place. It also drives home a kind of trama, a festering fear of a lack of control. Youth taught lessons are brought home fastest, yes, but thier effects can often divert beyond thier prupose. For the young learner is not whole, not formed, and the echos of voices remembered in childhood may fade into the mist of time but the words are etched with fire.

And ever burning.

And thus from burning we are prompted to complete the cyclic motions of logic. And so we come back to swords, and remember the fires that werre a part of thier making. The flames, gaudy red and briliant orange, the heart of the fire cast in the hottest of hues, white-blue... Violate tongues slide over the offered stone, and the hammer descends. Driving slag from iron and rebirthing iron to steel.

And like rebirth, birth is a thing of pain, of sacrifice.

It's a thing of taking and giving, and the end result of that exchange sits naked upon a length of wood. A line of silver, tinted green by the light set above it. It serves as a length of artic cast from an earthen mold. In the black of dark, this mini-world of lightlessness that he has willed. Beyond that world, in one extream, is an invitation of empty space. A floorless path to descent, a melding of physical laws that have been given flipant names such as "Newton" and "Merphy". The other leads down, but each step is sheathed in suspended earth, it's as safe as it could be made, for there are no laws for a tame fall.

Setting his chin upon calloused hands he considers the blade of steel born, and it's macabe task. Not all blood is hot when it hits steel. Un-Impassioned can be the hand that guilds the sword or steadies the gun.

Calculation, distilled and consumed on a regular bases, can still any fire and leave the crimson streams of life a lukewarm ruby.

He considers that lukewarm caress, that kiss of the lifestream, and considers the steel, and its purpose.

Then he recalls the note, and the passion that had made him throw it aside in anger.

His passion that had guilded those motions was worn down by the end of an afternoon. In it's place takes a numb resignation, a chill understanding. Ever a victum of hiw own private winter, Tseng considers the word that he was honor bound to keep. The order from parent to child was a spoken legecy, and even as numb as he was he still hated that legacy as much as he hated the woman who'd dictated it.

But, as he often told his subordinates, orders were orders. He could follow through with them and embrace what he hated -becoming a hypocrite to his core- or he could take the hard path. The road without median.

Either way, the first step would entail taking hold of cold steel.

With a sigh he reached forward, impact hardened hands closing on the leather of the handle and turned the weapon over so it's point faced him. He considered his reflection, split in twiain by the razor honed point, he smirked into that image, finding it fitting for all it's unsubtle reminders. That smirk though slid from his lips, and those lips pressed into a thin line of a frown as he heard the quiet tread of someone approuching. With an inexpert hand he turned the blade, his ineptitude was such that steel parted the arm of his sleeve with a quiet hiss. Wincing a bit at the sound -it seemed far too loud for the death silent room- he leaned back into his chair and considered the line of gold light that made a thin slit along the far wall.

He spoke, before the blow could fall. The sound of fist striking wood would be too loud, too profane, for his office.

"Enter."

And the line expanded into span. Roughly rectangular in shape, he stared at it thoguh a haze of pain, so used to was he to his self bound dark. Spying the profile through a mist of tears, that figure sheathed in the false gold of well timed and tinted illumination, he smiled and corrected himself.

"Enter, and be welcome."