~The following dawn~
The only sounds present in the gardens at this hour were sounds of the waters in the pools, running along their paths with an almost musical chime to them. A few contemplative souls could be seen roaming around the grassy areas and gazebos, but for the most part, the place was serene and still, a perfect location for reflection and introspection.
Or, perhaps, for lessons on how to kill a man.
The young soldier reflected on this idea as he strode from all those visible in the dark garden, seeking the quietest, most solitary glade he could find. Soon enough, the legionnaire came across the perfect spot; a wide, flat expanse of soft grass, surrounded on three sides by a large, curving body of still water. Low hanging willow branches hung from the trees that lined the grass just before the pool began, nearly touching the ground in length, and providing a natural curtain from view of the rest of the garden. It was here that Cyrus, dressed in a black hakama and white, sleeveless tunic, stopped and began his meditation.
Never formally schooled in the standardized methods of meditation, the discipline through which magi achieved their spellcasting state, his style of meditation was a reflection of the purpose which it served. It was the meditation of a warrior.
The young soldier took
Karvaaka from the belt around his waist, still housed in her black leather sheath, and sank to his knees in the center of the glade. He then rested back on to his heels, so that his long legs were folded beneath him, and he made his spine as straight as a spear with his head perfectly level and his eye closed to the world, and across the tops of his thighs he rested his sleeping longsword with his palms face down atop it. The position was not a natural or comfortable position, and the tension and pain that it caused would only lesson with familiarity and practice. It was these sensations that a warrior must become entirely familiar with, must struggle against and learn to master, and centering oneself through the discomfort of this particular meditative stance made one more able to reach the same tranquility and control when engaged in strenuous activity.
The young soldier began breathing deeply, controlling his inhaling and exhaling with all of his focus and attention. The concentration took his mind from the pain and the discomfort, and it helped him focus beyond it, unwaveringly fixed on the deep, steady breaths that he took. He was clearing his mind, quieting the questions and thoughts that raced through his swift brain.
The Kemite's earlier question still rang in Cyrus' ears, asking again and again why it was that he sought to learn and increase his proficiency in swordsmanship. Could he not already kill a man? Journey to the Umblat, and ask the souls that bear his mark about his lethal prowess. Yet, was that why he pushed himself harder and further with every day that passed, just so that he could better learn to take a life? The soldier reflected back on a defining experiance of his young life, the ritual of the Sanguine known as the Zali'mau, and of how his fierce warrior's instinct had driven him more to protect those under his care, rather than simply shed as much blood as he could manage. It was this need to protect that had lent an impossible strength to his limbs and skill to his attacks, and he had battled as savagely as his Virkyn companion in the bowels of the crystal Citadel.
Was that what drove him? Cyrus could not say, but upon reflecting so deeply on the concept of protection, he could not keep the image of Elizabeth and Benjamin from comming to mind. He saw them as he had last seen them in life; terrified, reaching for him through the shadow that had been cast over thier lives. He remembered how helpless he had felt, how utterly and entirely unable he had been to prevent the deaths of the two people that mattered most in his life, and of how the burning need for vengence had fueled and satiated him for so long. Still, his desire to learn and better himself predated the deaths of his beloved family, and no matter how much their loss and what it bred in him drove him forward, they were not the root of his drive to learn either.
Other memories returned to him then, of enemies young and old, strong and frail, that had fallen before his sword. He recalled a furtive youth, crossing blades with a young legionnaire recruit, and of the expression on his face when Cyrus' sword parted the soft flesh of his throat. The soldier then recalled the image of an wanted criminal, an actor on stage and on bent knee before him, and the distinct sound that had been heard when Cyrus' sword cleaved his heart in twain. Others still came to him, and with the memories, came the rush of pure dominating aggression and exhileration that came with the kill. Try as he might to deny it's temptation, the victory brought out life and power within Cyrus that could only be found in blood-drenched combat, and found it's most powerful climax in the utter destruction of his foes.
The duality was both maddening and empowering.
Suddenly, a soft footstep approaching broke the soldier's meditation, and his lone azure eye flashed open and fixed on the figure of Hiro that stood several yards out before him. The Kemite was dressed as he had been earlier, white robe hanging around his thin frame in the breezeless glade and katana thrust through his black waistcloth, and he still wore the same smiling expression on his countence.
"
Greetings, Kenshi." He began, his voice barely breaking the serenity of the garden environment. "
Now, we can begin."