Carrenworth: The Vengeance: Chapter Nine: "Arête" ~part one~
HISTORICAL NOTE: Arête was an extremely Greek virtue exemplified by the hero Achilles in the Homeric epic, THE ILIAD. Literally translated, Arête means excellence. The purest form of Arête was excellence in battle.
"My excellence is proven through your defeat."
In the library of the Ecole Militaire in Paris dust wafted through the air on gentle gusts of wind stirred up by the turning of pages. Some of it came to rest again on the tops of unused tables, stacks of ancient books, and quill pens resting in inkwells only to be stirred up once again when someone came to sit at the table, read the books, or write with the quill. Thus, in an unending, seemingly immortal cycle, the circulation of dust continued. Yet, in this library there existed the continuation of yet another seemingly endless cycle, the one who exists to upset the balance. Some lucky pieces of ever roving dust were to find there escape by, in their lazy wanderings, coming to rest within the thick auburn hair of Victor Alexander Carrenworth VI.
Victor was twenty-one, and as far as those near him were concerned, a man of roughly six passions, one for each of the Victor Carrenworths who had come before. He was dedicated to his thin, silver rapier, a blade that he could command to do things few thought possible. His skill with the sword was unparalleled. The fencing instructors often joked that the reason Victor had never been defeated was that his opponents were too entranced by his glorious skill. They were too occupied with observing to even remember that they were the target.
He was dedicated to being beautiful. There was never a day when Victor Alexander Carrenworth resembled anything less than one of the Greek gods descended from Mount Olympus. He dressed as someone of his social standing was expected to dress and somehow managed to exceed the expectation. In addition to a seemingly endless supply of fashionable outfits, Victor kept another seemingly endless supply of accessories. These included hair ribbons in every color from light mauve to midnight black, hundreds of uniquely designed rings, leather gloves in black, brown, red, and numerous other shades, and enough shoes to make even the richest lady jealous. He began every day with a hot bath, the water scented with rose oil. There were also his uniquely scarlet handkerchiefs, one of which he would produce in the event of one of those strange spasms of coughing he was subject to.
He was dedicated to learning, being the sort who eagerly learned anything he though might be of some use in the future. He wanted to be prepared to handle any situation that arose, converse knowledgably on any topic, and offer advice for solving any problem. He had graduated from Oxford, with a law degree at the age of seventeen, before dedicating himself to military training. He spoke perfect Latin, Greek, and French.
He was dedicated to proving his own superiority, and willingly accepted any challenge he did not find foolish or beneath his dignity. So far he had proven himself the most capable man in nearly everything but drinking. His tiny, frail body prevented him from downing several pints of ale with no noticeable consequences; not that he drank anyway.
He was dedicated to perfection. It was widely suspected that he considered himself the very embodiment of perfection and expected nothing less of others. Though this was very near to the truth, in all honesty, though the imperfections of others sometimes annoyed him, Victor preferred to think of others as lesser people. If everyone was quite as perfect as he then what would his own excellence matter?
Lastly, he was dedicated to military common sense. He considered the British generals who had fought to put down the rebellion in the colonies fools. Marching through the fields in those distinctive red jackets was just advertising oneself as a viable target.
Nearly everyone who met Victor Alexander Carrenworth developed an almost immediate dislike for him, because for every single one of his good qualities he possessed at least four bad ones. He was arrogant and to sure of the inherent correctness of his own opinions to tolerate those of others. He was susceptible to violent mood swings ranging from inexhaustible drive and energy to deep depression and apathy, and during those times of depression his normal shield of self-love faded to reveal his horrible insecurities and his irrational jealousy of those who he perceived to be better at something than he was, and it was toward the target of his jealousy that he directed his entire capacity for irrational hatred. And if that wasn't enough, there was his dreadfully high-pitched voice that no normal person could stand listening to for longer than five minutes. There was also that general feeling of discomfort that surrounded him, something to do with odd twitches of the eyes and lips.
"Your lordship."
Victor Alexander Carrenworth looked up from the thick tome of etiquette he had been studying. Some of that dust that had settled in hair was condemned once again to its eternal unrest. His piercing, slanted, blue eyes fixed themselves on the pudgy face of a man he hadn't seen in several years, Gen. William Howe.
"My dear General Howe, whatever brings you here?"
Gen. Howe couldn't help but stare in amazement at how the boy he had brought to France four years ago had transformed from a sniveling little boy into a something more suited to the title of Duke of Fairenvail. The boy's father had entrusted Howe with protecting young Victor, hiding him from the family's enemies, those brutal and barbaric Tavingtons and their ally, Dr. Handalgo Mooreville.
"Business of the most serious kind," the general replied. "And might I say that I am glad to see your lordship looking well."
Howe was painfully aware of his lie. He could already see the signs of the disease that seemed to be hereditary to those with the Carrenworth name. Victor's father, the Duke, had been one of the few who did not meet an early death at the hands of consumption.
"I appreciate the intention of your thoughtful lie."
Howe gave a nervous little laugh. He had never been a good liar, and the Duke's gift for sensing motives seemed to have been inherited by his son.
"Now, what is this business you wish to discuss with me?"
The general looked about the library nervously at the other students, most pretended to be immersed in their studies, others who were not so discreet stared wide-eyed. What was this English-speaking and obviously British man doing in the finest of the French military academies.
"I would speak in private."
"Of course," Victor answered standing and closing the book with his thin, white fingers.
Without another word, he led Gen. Howe out of the library, through the halls, and out onto the academy's parade ground. Normally used for infantry drills, it was deserted now that the weather had turned bitterly cold. A cruelly cold breeze blew across the wide expanse of cobblestone plainness. They were perfectly alone. Gen. Howe pulled his woolen great- coat tighter around his fat body. He had the common sense not to wear his British uniform. The two nations were not on the friendliest of terms. Victor slipped a pair of pale-blue leather gloves over his hands. The breeze ruffled his red curls.
"You shouldn't be out in this weather, your lordship. With your weak."
Victor gave the general a particularly black look, the sort of look only someone with piercing eyes is capable of. Howe immediately fell silent.
"Walk with me, Gen. Howe." It was a command, not an invitation.
They began a long circuit around the parade grounds, Howe shivering from the cold despite his bulk, and Victor seemingly unaffected despite his illness, though he did pull one of his scarlet handkerchiefs out of his sleeve and cough into it occasionally.
When they had traversed nearly a quarter of the grounds, Victor turned to Howe and asked in a nearly maniacal tone, "Is he dead? Is he finally dead?"
"You refer to your father?"
"Of course I refer to my father, you idiot!" he cried in absolute disgust at the general's ignorance. "Who else would I be referring to?"
There was a second of awkward silence. Howe fidgeted with his pudgy finger as bit. "Yes, your father is dead, and if I may say so, you lordship does not appear to be particularly saddened by this news."
"Saddened? By the death of that old fool? The man who condemned me to this unendurable exile? The man who sent me to live amongst the enemy? The man who, if he had lived another year, would have very well put me at risk for execution by the rebels who are organizing beneath the very nose of the French monarchy?"
Howe was quite used to the young Duke's outbursts furry, still he couldn't help being a bit surprised by the severity of the hatred he felt towards his father. The general remembered well the sorrow he had felt when his own father had passed away.
"He only though of your safety."
"Hah! My safety? He never thought about me. He never though of anyone but himself."
Howe was struck by the irony of this statement. He had to bite his tongue to keep himself from laughing.
Victor's blue eyes lit up horribly. "Where is it? I want it now!"
Howe sighed and reached into the pocket of his great-coat; from the depths he produced a small, red box. Victor snatched it greedily, snapped it open, then loving, gently, removed its contents. It was his father's most prized possession; he had never taken it off. If Howe had it there was no doubting that the old man was really, truly dead. He returned the box to the general and despite the fact that he was wearing leather gloves Victor managed to fasten the golden chain around his neck. Dangling from the chain was the symbol of the Carrenworth family, the pendant in the shape of a golden dragon with fierce, fiery-red eyes.
"I hardly doubt that the whole of the time you spent in France was unendurable," Howe ventured.
"Whatever makes you say that?" the new Duke of Fairenvail asked off- handedly, too absorbed in admiring his new accessory to pay full attention to the general.
"There were those few months you spent in the colonies with the British navy when they came to assist the rebels in their defeat of Cornwallis at Yorktown."
Victor remembered his brief stay in the colonies exactly as he remembered most things, in wondrous detail. Every second of that tedious voyage, the incompetence of the French naval officers, the horrid lack of cleanliness, were all engraved in his mind. There was that one amusing incident, however, and that was when he had challenged that colonist to a duel. The fool had bumped into him on the street. Victor knew it had most likely been an accident, but he was so deathly bored that he made quite the fuss out of it. He had accused the colonist of everything from blindness to flat-out stupidity. He had always enjoyed an argument and would have been perfectly content with humiliating the man. The fool might still be alive, Victor concluded, if he hadn't committed the ultimate transgression. Never, in his entire life, had Victor Alexander Carrenworth been punched.
The utter humiliation, the damage to his precious ego, had caused such blind furry to consume him that his eyes filled with tears, which were streaming down his white cheeks, one of which was turning a deep purple; by the time he had calmed down enough to challenge the colonist to a contest of honor.
The poor man had been woefully inexperienced in formal combat. He had lasted a mere thirty seconds against Victor's blade.
There was only one thing that seemed to escape the duke's impeccable memory, and that was the colonist's name. He had only heard it once. Martin. perhaps? Yes, that was it, Benjamin Martin.
"I had no choice but to go were the French commanded me," Victor told Howe coldly his voice like the winter air around them. "I have been a veritable prisoner in this country. Do not think my actions traitorous. My loyalty to the king is second only to my loyalty to myself. As much as I hate to admit it, as much as any man who relies so heavily on his own abilities would hate to admit it, without England, I am nothing."
Howe tried to calm his nerves. This boy made him feel decidedly uneasy. "Woe to the man who would accuse a Carrenworth of being a traitor."
"Well spoken, my dear general," Victor's lips curved into a mockery of a smile. He put one of his arms around Howe's shoulders. "But I have kept you out in the cold long enough. If you've nothing more of true importance to say then I must invite you to share in my afternoon tea. We must arrange a marvelous party to commemorate my return to England."
"A party, your lordship? Are you sure that's. proper?"
"It would only be improper where I in mourning and I do assure you, Sir Howe, I have no intention of wearing black. That particular color is quite out of style this season."
HISTORICAL NOTE: Arête was an extremely Greek virtue exemplified by the hero Achilles in the Homeric epic, THE ILIAD. Literally translated, Arête means excellence. The purest form of Arête was excellence in battle.
"My excellence is proven through your defeat."
In the library of the Ecole Militaire in Paris dust wafted through the air on gentle gusts of wind stirred up by the turning of pages. Some of it came to rest again on the tops of unused tables, stacks of ancient books, and quill pens resting in inkwells only to be stirred up once again when someone came to sit at the table, read the books, or write with the quill. Thus, in an unending, seemingly immortal cycle, the circulation of dust continued. Yet, in this library there existed the continuation of yet another seemingly endless cycle, the one who exists to upset the balance. Some lucky pieces of ever roving dust were to find there escape by, in their lazy wanderings, coming to rest within the thick auburn hair of Victor Alexander Carrenworth VI.
Victor was twenty-one, and as far as those near him were concerned, a man of roughly six passions, one for each of the Victor Carrenworths who had come before. He was dedicated to his thin, silver rapier, a blade that he could command to do things few thought possible. His skill with the sword was unparalleled. The fencing instructors often joked that the reason Victor had never been defeated was that his opponents were too entranced by his glorious skill. They were too occupied with observing to even remember that they were the target.
He was dedicated to being beautiful. There was never a day when Victor Alexander Carrenworth resembled anything less than one of the Greek gods descended from Mount Olympus. He dressed as someone of his social standing was expected to dress and somehow managed to exceed the expectation. In addition to a seemingly endless supply of fashionable outfits, Victor kept another seemingly endless supply of accessories. These included hair ribbons in every color from light mauve to midnight black, hundreds of uniquely designed rings, leather gloves in black, brown, red, and numerous other shades, and enough shoes to make even the richest lady jealous. He began every day with a hot bath, the water scented with rose oil. There were also his uniquely scarlet handkerchiefs, one of which he would produce in the event of one of those strange spasms of coughing he was subject to.
He was dedicated to learning, being the sort who eagerly learned anything he though might be of some use in the future. He wanted to be prepared to handle any situation that arose, converse knowledgably on any topic, and offer advice for solving any problem. He had graduated from Oxford, with a law degree at the age of seventeen, before dedicating himself to military training. He spoke perfect Latin, Greek, and French.
He was dedicated to proving his own superiority, and willingly accepted any challenge he did not find foolish or beneath his dignity. So far he had proven himself the most capable man in nearly everything but drinking. His tiny, frail body prevented him from downing several pints of ale with no noticeable consequences; not that he drank anyway.
He was dedicated to perfection. It was widely suspected that he considered himself the very embodiment of perfection and expected nothing less of others. Though this was very near to the truth, in all honesty, though the imperfections of others sometimes annoyed him, Victor preferred to think of others as lesser people. If everyone was quite as perfect as he then what would his own excellence matter?
Lastly, he was dedicated to military common sense. He considered the British generals who had fought to put down the rebellion in the colonies fools. Marching through the fields in those distinctive red jackets was just advertising oneself as a viable target.
Nearly everyone who met Victor Alexander Carrenworth developed an almost immediate dislike for him, because for every single one of his good qualities he possessed at least four bad ones. He was arrogant and to sure of the inherent correctness of his own opinions to tolerate those of others. He was susceptible to violent mood swings ranging from inexhaustible drive and energy to deep depression and apathy, and during those times of depression his normal shield of self-love faded to reveal his horrible insecurities and his irrational jealousy of those who he perceived to be better at something than he was, and it was toward the target of his jealousy that he directed his entire capacity for irrational hatred. And if that wasn't enough, there was his dreadfully high-pitched voice that no normal person could stand listening to for longer than five minutes. There was also that general feeling of discomfort that surrounded him, something to do with odd twitches of the eyes and lips.
"Your lordship."
Victor Alexander Carrenworth looked up from the thick tome of etiquette he had been studying. Some of that dust that had settled in hair was condemned once again to its eternal unrest. His piercing, slanted, blue eyes fixed themselves on the pudgy face of a man he hadn't seen in several years, Gen. William Howe.
"My dear General Howe, whatever brings you here?"
Gen. Howe couldn't help but stare in amazement at how the boy he had brought to France four years ago had transformed from a sniveling little boy into a something more suited to the title of Duke of Fairenvail. The boy's father had entrusted Howe with protecting young Victor, hiding him from the family's enemies, those brutal and barbaric Tavingtons and their ally, Dr. Handalgo Mooreville.
"Business of the most serious kind," the general replied. "And might I say that I am glad to see your lordship looking well."
Howe was painfully aware of his lie. He could already see the signs of the disease that seemed to be hereditary to those with the Carrenworth name. Victor's father, the Duke, had been one of the few who did not meet an early death at the hands of consumption.
"I appreciate the intention of your thoughtful lie."
Howe gave a nervous little laugh. He had never been a good liar, and the Duke's gift for sensing motives seemed to have been inherited by his son.
"Now, what is this business you wish to discuss with me?"
The general looked about the library nervously at the other students, most pretended to be immersed in their studies, others who were not so discreet stared wide-eyed. What was this English-speaking and obviously British man doing in the finest of the French military academies.
"I would speak in private."
"Of course," Victor answered standing and closing the book with his thin, white fingers.
Without another word, he led Gen. Howe out of the library, through the halls, and out onto the academy's parade ground. Normally used for infantry drills, it was deserted now that the weather had turned bitterly cold. A cruelly cold breeze blew across the wide expanse of cobblestone plainness. They were perfectly alone. Gen. Howe pulled his woolen great- coat tighter around his fat body. He had the common sense not to wear his British uniform. The two nations were not on the friendliest of terms. Victor slipped a pair of pale-blue leather gloves over his hands. The breeze ruffled his red curls.
"You shouldn't be out in this weather, your lordship. With your weak."
Victor gave the general a particularly black look, the sort of look only someone with piercing eyes is capable of. Howe immediately fell silent.
"Walk with me, Gen. Howe." It was a command, not an invitation.
They began a long circuit around the parade grounds, Howe shivering from the cold despite his bulk, and Victor seemingly unaffected despite his illness, though he did pull one of his scarlet handkerchiefs out of his sleeve and cough into it occasionally.
When they had traversed nearly a quarter of the grounds, Victor turned to Howe and asked in a nearly maniacal tone, "Is he dead? Is he finally dead?"
"You refer to your father?"
"Of course I refer to my father, you idiot!" he cried in absolute disgust at the general's ignorance. "Who else would I be referring to?"
There was a second of awkward silence. Howe fidgeted with his pudgy finger as bit. "Yes, your father is dead, and if I may say so, you lordship does not appear to be particularly saddened by this news."
"Saddened? By the death of that old fool? The man who condemned me to this unendurable exile? The man who sent me to live amongst the enemy? The man who, if he had lived another year, would have very well put me at risk for execution by the rebels who are organizing beneath the very nose of the French monarchy?"
Howe was quite used to the young Duke's outbursts furry, still he couldn't help being a bit surprised by the severity of the hatred he felt towards his father. The general remembered well the sorrow he had felt when his own father had passed away.
"He only though of your safety."
"Hah! My safety? He never thought about me. He never though of anyone but himself."
Howe was struck by the irony of this statement. He had to bite his tongue to keep himself from laughing.
Victor's blue eyes lit up horribly. "Where is it? I want it now!"
Howe sighed and reached into the pocket of his great-coat; from the depths he produced a small, red box. Victor snatched it greedily, snapped it open, then loving, gently, removed its contents. It was his father's most prized possession; he had never taken it off. If Howe had it there was no doubting that the old man was really, truly dead. He returned the box to the general and despite the fact that he was wearing leather gloves Victor managed to fasten the golden chain around his neck. Dangling from the chain was the symbol of the Carrenworth family, the pendant in the shape of a golden dragon with fierce, fiery-red eyes.
"I hardly doubt that the whole of the time you spent in France was unendurable," Howe ventured.
"Whatever makes you say that?" the new Duke of Fairenvail asked off- handedly, too absorbed in admiring his new accessory to pay full attention to the general.
"There were those few months you spent in the colonies with the British navy when they came to assist the rebels in their defeat of Cornwallis at Yorktown."
Victor remembered his brief stay in the colonies exactly as he remembered most things, in wondrous detail. Every second of that tedious voyage, the incompetence of the French naval officers, the horrid lack of cleanliness, were all engraved in his mind. There was that one amusing incident, however, and that was when he had challenged that colonist to a duel. The fool had bumped into him on the street. Victor knew it had most likely been an accident, but he was so deathly bored that he made quite the fuss out of it. He had accused the colonist of everything from blindness to flat-out stupidity. He had always enjoyed an argument and would have been perfectly content with humiliating the man. The fool might still be alive, Victor concluded, if he hadn't committed the ultimate transgression. Never, in his entire life, had Victor Alexander Carrenworth been punched.
The utter humiliation, the damage to his precious ego, had caused such blind furry to consume him that his eyes filled with tears, which were streaming down his white cheeks, one of which was turning a deep purple; by the time he had calmed down enough to challenge the colonist to a contest of honor.
The poor man had been woefully inexperienced in formal combat. He had lasted a mere thirty seconds against Victor's blade.
There was only one thing that seemed to escape the duke's impeccable memory, and that was the colonist's name. He had only heard it once. Martin. perhaps? Yes, that was it, Benjamin Martin.
"I had no choice but to go were the French commanded me," Victor told Howe coldly his voice like the winter air around them. "I have been a veritable prisoner in this country. Do not think my actions traitorous. My loyalty to the king is second only to my loyalty to myself. As much as I hate to admit it, as much as any man who relies so heavily on his own abilities would hate to admit it, without England, I am nothing."
Howe tried to calm his nerves. This boy made him feel decidedly uneasy. "Woe to the man who would accuse a Carrenworth of being a traitor."
"Well spoken, my dear general," Victor's lips curved into a mockery of a smile. He put one of his arms around Howe's shoulders. "But I have kept you out in the cold long enough. If you've nothing more of true importance to say then I must invite you to share in my afternoon tea. We must arrange a marvelous party to commemorate my return to England."
"A party, your lordship? Are you sure that's. proper?"
"It would only be improper where I in mourning and I do assure you, Sir Howe, I have no intention of wearing black. That particular color is quite out of style this season."