“...Is this really necessary?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Why... This?” Tyr couldn't even shout. If there was a word for this level of physical exhaustion, he didn't know it. Doubted it existed in all of the thesaurus and dictionary tomes he'd been forced to read by his dozens of tutors. He was aggravated. Two months of this. Two months! Sixty days! Something like that, time seemed to blur by in his addled mind. Nobody in this gods forsaken place seemed to own a calendar. No utility mages, no astromancers... It was hell. They rose with the sun and toiled, no face given to the low temperature in the air nor the weather. 'Rain or snow', most of the time it was just snow though. That wet, sticky sleet and alarming chill in his limbs that made him whine about frostbite more than once.

“You ask me this question every day. Every day, I've answered you patiently. If you ask me again, I will add my own weight to your training. And I am heavier than I look, boy.”

“Yes, master.” Tyr replied meekly. How foolish he'd been to accept the mans offer to train him. Even if Tyr had willfully asked for it, he was content to blame Thomas for all of his problems. A man who forced him to carry a backpack of rocks up and down the mountain. Ever day. It was so cliche, like something you'd read in a Western style romance story written for young men. Tyr had once thought his pride and stubbornness indomitable. Only to find that he was weaker than he'd expected, both in body and mind.

'My gray bearded master instructed me to...'

Submerge himself in the flow beneath a waterfall, barely able to breath. But if he tried to leave, Thomas would smack him with a stick. Still sopping wet, he'd be given no reprieve.

“Use your fire.”

“I can't...”

“Then run up the mountain again, that'll warm you up. You know, when I was a child, my father made me--”

“Enough! Fine, I'll run up the mountain!”

I hate this... He couldn't quit. Tyr remained unafraid of death, but he'd be broken to splinters before he let his pride truly buckle, refusing to allow Thomas the satisfaction. 'Ah, I knew it. You weren't cut out for this. Go home.' Pointless as it might be, Tyr wanted to 'win' so bad that it kept him rooted in place despite his mind screaming for him to run away from this ridiculous trial. Self control, patience, all of the things Tyr was missing, written on a canvas and slapped against his face until he admitted all his faults.

It was the first time that Tyr's pride had been forced to confront a problem that could not be beaten with sword, his mouth, or a flailing of fists. He had to push through it. The prince knew this was all probably some sick alternative to just killing him, Thomas allowed him to suffer and labor for days on end. If he performed poorly, he wasn't even allowed to eat. His stomach grumbled painfully, and if he whined overmuch, Thomas beat him unconscious. He wasn't so gentle, that 'master' of his.

Still... Tyr thought. I'll do this thing, and then he will train me. After that, I'll... Kill him.

Up. Down. Up. Down. Every other day. On his 'days of rest', Tyr tended to the chopping of trees, which wasn't very restful. Wake, eat, wash, work. Wake, eat, wash, work. Wake, eat, wash, work. Wake, no food today because you ran your mouth, wash, work. Wake, eat, wash, work. Wake, eat, wash, work. Every. Day. For. Two. Months. Tyr had even tried appealing to Rorik on a day where his stomach felt so empty it was driving him insane, but for some reason the man refused to act. He could see the sympathy in Rorik's eyes, but he was bizarrely respectful toward the old man. Deferential, really.

It was getting colder now, which suited him just fine. Tyr had never hated the cold, it cleared the mind and refreshed him. The chill in the air though, not running wet through freezing rain – he certainly didn't like that. He only had a problem with it in his mornings, but the old man would drag him from bed by his leg if he attempted to sleep in. He'd get a beating for that too, but not with a stick. More rocks. More hours at the axe. More insults. There were a lot of those, too. The mockery, ensuring that Tyr both rose and collapsed into bed with rage tinging his every thought.

'If you break, and lash out at me. You have failed, and your training will begin again.' This was designed, Tyr thought, to teach him some accountability of self. After all, if he couldn't ignore the raspy whispers of an old man with a barbed tongue, how could he consider himself a master of anything? He'd failed that. Thrice. Four times, nearly, before he'd caught himself just moments beforehand. Thomas added to the workload, but hadn't failed him that day. It was progress, slow and agonizing, but progress nonetheless.

Tyr's arrogance and perception of self washed away under a sea of complaints that welled up from within. This place, that he had liked so much at first, had become an unending nightmare. He even dreamed of his arms aching and back sagging until he was old and crooked. Thomas taught him absolutely nothing of the sword. And everything had become the fault of someone else. Though he knew that to be a fallacy... Tyr had these thoughts, and hated himself for them. Well aware of the 'point' behind some exercises, but knowing was not everything.

“You ask me this question every day. Every day, I've answered you patiently. If you ask me again, I will add my own weight to your training.” Tyr's dazed mind flicked back to the present. Here, in this place, with sweat beading to become frosty at the edges all along his naked body. It was cold, the mountain. A mountain with no name, small in comparison to others, but still a mountain. He couldn't shake or shiver, necessary to remain as still as possible so that he might pass. Resisting his biological urges to warm himself. Despite the thinner atmosphere and chillness to the air, Tyr was hot, he grew hotter every day – his core in denial of the temperature around him. Almost like he'd swallowed a molten marble, he could feel a heat in his stomach at all times.

“You might feel your body is ready.” Thomas added. Again. “It is not. Your body and mind are weak, overly pampered. Too long you've spent in the shadow of your father and comforts of the palace. Your servants and magic to relieve you of pains and burdens. My children, five years your junior at their passing, could do this with half again as much breath as you. I've never seen someone so worthless despite all of the advantages given to you by birth.”

He did this. That Thomas. That old bastard. Constantly mocking and picking at Tyr's pride. Insulting everyone and everything. His wives? Ugly, according to Thomas. His empire? Weak, according to Thomas. His father? An aberration, according to Thomas. These things never bothered Tyr. He had eyes, and he knew the truth. He wasn't possessive of his wives, passionate in regard to the empire, nor overly fond of his father. But his mother... Those were the words that always struck the heaviest chord within him. The old man was merciless, nothing was beneath him and some days the vitriol would strike much closer to Tyr's heart than others.

More than that, as Tyr observed... He respected the old man. Had to, how could he not? Steel was worth respect. Steel in a man, steel in the hand, steel of the land. This was the imperial way. It was the words the man piled on him about the prince's own failings that were the worst. Tyr's arrogance and vain masculinity plucked at like the strings of a lute. He'd never thought of himself the way that Thomas made him feel. But the old man was not lying.

A wretched thing full of self loathing hidden behind a wall of... He didn't know. Hadn't known himself as well as he'd thought. Another lesson that Thomas seemed intent to teach him, chipping away at his own identity. Breaking him into pieces to reform him into something, or someone, that had worth. He saw the merit in it, the prince, but that didn't mean it didn't scratch at him. Why would words about himself harm him more than ill comments about his mother?

What kind of man was he if that were the case? Selfish, at best, a rabid narcissist. To make matters yet more difficult, the old man ran beside him bearing the same burdens. Worked just as hard, every day, though he did it with an apparent lack of effort, showcasing both his adherence to the various trials as well as his obvious superiority. Tyr understood now why the men who followed him into the wood respected the old man. With a body that belied his age. Capable of things Tyr had never thought possible. He was at least sixty, showing himself more capable than any knight or teacher the prince had ever had, and then some. Where they worked, Thomas worked even harder.

“Stop!” Thomas' voice had a weight to it, a visceral gravity that froze him in his tracks.

Why... Oh...

He was at an edge, so lost in his dazed thoughts necessary to ignore the exhaustion and pain that he found himself near flung over a ledge. “We're at the top... Where do we go now?”

“Nowhere.” Thomas replied. “We've earned ourselves a rest. Sit, or stand – I don't care.”

Tyr balked at that. A rest? Rest? He'd asked for one every day, even begging sometimes. Just a brief moment to rest his feet. Now... If Thomas had insisted upon it, Tyr would have ran yet further. He'd never reached the top of the mountain before. Not once. He was athletic, at least in relation to a normal man, but never superhuman. Not like his father. Not like a primus. Jogging up the precarious landscape of a mountainside with a pack full of heavy rocks had been as hard as one might expect. Multiply the task by a factor of ten given the sheer sides and weather conditions and you might understand the insane difficulty. It was grueling, requiring muscles Tyr had never thought he'd possessed. Even his groin hurt. Everywhere hurt, his ass so sore he opted to stand at first instead of taking the seat he'd wished for.

“What do you see?” The old man asked. “Look around you, and tell me what you see.”

Irritatingly, Thomas folded his legs beneath him and rested on a smooth boulder twice the height of a man that sat near the peak. How he had made his way to this position without a visual or audible movement, Tyr had no idea. Seconds earlier, Thomas been behind him, standing in the snow.

“...Trees? More mountains? Is this another question of philosophy, because I'm--”

“Not in the mood to wax and wane on the deeper nature of things.” Thomas sighed, finishing the prince's sentence. “Speak what you feel, in your heart. There's no need for art, nor drama, nor – as you say – philosophy. It's so simple a child could answer my question.”

“Riverwood.” Tyr replied. He could see the soft tendrils of smoke that trailed from it's many chimneys, sitting some miles to the west across the river. At this distance, no people could be made out. It was tiny, no bigger than a pebble from his point of view. A tiny and insignificant speck of civilization.

“What else?” Thomas asked, earning a groan from Tyr that was cut half short in fear of being made to run the mountain paths again. He chuckled, producing a steaming cup of some hot liquid seemingly from nowhere. The old man was strange, capable of things.

“To the north, I see the late baron's demesne and farms. To the east, more mountains. To the south, not much else but forests. Maybe a village, there, but I can't tell.” Tyr pointed to indicate the bare stretch of land that seemed tracked with roadway. “To the west, Riverwood, the river, and... Trees. Lots of snow.”

“Mmm. Tea?” Thomas offered, taking a sip from a steaming cup that had also appeared out of nowhere Tyr shook his head, he knew that if he put anything in his stomach now it would jump come back out again on the way down. “What do these things mean to you?”

“Nothing.” Tyr shrugged. He'd been asked similar questions time and time again, though Thomas had only ever announced his answers a 'failure' and made him run some more. Always it was 'I see', and back to the grind. “Buildings of wood, thatch, and the occasional nail. Ceramic tile. Natural features of the earth. One small part of the world we live in.”

“The outlook of a pragmatist, yes. Look deeper. I asked what they mean to you. You say 'nothing', I call this a falsehood. You may not possess the wisdom to love and appreciate the forests as I do, nor the mountains that stand over them, but the places and the people? If they were to disappear tomorrow, you'd feel nothing?”

“I see. If that were the case, I would feel something. For Riverwood, or for the cabins near the mountain, but I do not know the others. Those who dwell in the shadow of the barons estate? I do not know them, why would I care what happens to them?” Tyr said this, and realized he was wrong almost immediately.

“It's good that you've at least the cognizance to consider the people that you know as worthwhile, in your way. But the others? You are a prince, what does it matter if you know them as friend or acquaintance? You'd feel nothing if they perished? My bitter little prince with your constant threats of death. Are you truly so dark?”

“You're trying to say this is my land, and I should care for everyone and everything on it?”

Thomas laughed at that, openly and honestly. A hearty, throaty laugh full of vigor. “No. I seek to understand, not to tell you how to feel. This is not your land, and it belongs to no individual man or woman, and never will. It is land. How can a man own land? To own a structure is one thing, but we as men will never possess the land. We can squabble and bleed each other in dispute over it, but these mountains will long outlive your house. Every man, woman, and child of your blood will wilt to dust before the land ever realizes you existed at all. Somewhere, in some form, this is something that will always exist – long after you are gone.”

“I guess that's true.” Tyr replied with a nod. Every individual grain of sand had existed on the earth longer than the oldest man. “A lesson in humility?” He asked his teacher.

“A lesson of reality, whatever you want it to be a lesson of.” Thomas replied. “Humility is the game of fools and poets. There is no humility, only balance. To understand and to balance oneself is not the be humble. Nobility, chivalry, humility, wisdom... All a matter of perspective. To you, I must be wise. To a mountain, I have seen nothing of substance and done even less. To be humble is good, but to be humble is to be human. We who seek to be more than that can never be humble. I am not humble, I know who and what I am, and anyone who heard my inner voice who never call me humble. Leave humility to the priests, boy. Understanding yourself or what you are capable of has nothing to do with humility. Too often humility is the concept that we must refuse our understanding of how we might be superior. Nature is the opposite of humble, and it is not inferior because of it. The strong survive, and kill, shape things as they please – nature is of an arrogance so titanic I could never articulate it.”

“I don't understand myself.” Tyr answered. He thought he did, once, but he most certainly did not. When pushed a certain way he changed. Made to work too hard, he whined, pride or not he had erupted into girlish tears more times than once. Mind and body stressed to the breaking point by the inane daily rituals. All enjoyment or novelty sucked out of them and replaced with cruel reality.

“And that is a good, if humble answer.” Thomas chuckled, less energetically this time, more aged and tired. “With that being said, what do you see as you stand at the peak of this mountain? Less so, what do you feel?”

“Honestly?”

“I'd ask nothing less.”

“I feel insignificant. Worthless. Like I could die today and the world would forget me faster than I could blink. That I don't matter, that nothing matters.”

“Some would say there is wisdom in that. And for once, I can't say you're wrong.” Thomas relied. “Significance in all things is in the eye of the beholder. I, for example, see that all life has incredible meaning, and therefore can never be worthless. All things have a purpose whether it is active, passive, or both. What is your purpose?”

“To be... The prince?” Tyr tiled his head in confusion, unable to frame the question. “No, to be the primus. This has always been my purpose.”

Thomas sighed. There was a touch of disappointment to it, though he remained patient. It was a knowing sigh that said 'I expected such an answer', but not one that indicated he liked the reply in any case. “No, young man. To be a primus. I'll never blatantly lie to you so long as you heed my instruction. I know little of the way of your kind, not even why you exist at all. I've heard all the songs, the words of priests, the legends from every mouth that would tell them in a score of nations. I feel no closer to the truth than when I was born. But to 'be the primus'? From a mortal perspective, to 'be a king' is no true purpose or goal at all. That's like saying... My purpose is to 'be a lumberjack'. It had no meaning, nor substance. Conviction is not in position or vocation, conviction is in what you want to do most of all. Do you truly wish to lead? To contribute and build an empire? To manage and shepherd men? I do not want to cut trees, that is too specific. Life is vague. I want to know nature intimately and I want it to challenge me. My vocation is the tiniest aspect in relevance to my conviction.”

He looked at the prince expectantly. Patiently. A softness to his tone that Tyr had not heard in many months. The prince, on his part, wanted to chuck a rock at the old bastards head – but he felt a... He didn't know. How could he frame that? Staring down at the light of the sunset kissing the horizon and all the trees below. Contentment? Temporary, but apt, he did feel that way. A contentedness kissed at his weary spirit and painted a tapestry majestic beyond the abilities of the greatest artist. It was a feeling that made him look inward, not with hate or complaints this time. To truly reflect, and the world had a way about it that made men think. To truly reflect and wonder at it, and themselves.

“My purpose is... To find my purpose.” Tyr felt an 'awakening' of sorts, but nothing of understanding. No 'oneness' or 'transcendence in spirit' that the western lore spoke of. Perhaps that was why the eastern kingdoms laughed at it the way they did. This man, Thomas, was a spiritual man. Men in the Haran were not, but Tyr had heard the Oresundians had practices like this. Even the priests, they did not act or speak in such a way. They did not tempt the spirit into understanding or awareness. Merely behaving as dictated by rigid codes and doctrines long carved in stone by their predecessors. “I don't possess the answers you seek. I want to protect this land, because it's my birthright. Because it belongs to me. I know what you're saying, but I do not feel the bond that you have with nature. I'd fight and bleed in an effort to protect it all, but for other reasons.”

“This is all well and good, but not what I asked. You are tied up in strings. Like a puppet. All these strings. How you should act or how you should be perceived. These political games you've been taught to play through instruction or experience. They are a burden on your spirit and your soul, to accompany your deeds and sins which are equally burdensome.” Thomas spoke with an even voice. The beams of light streaking over the horizon crested his hair, giving him an immaterial halo about the head that nearly made Tyr laugh. Even the corner of his whiskers were aglow with firelight. “Your purpose being to find your purpose...?” The old man snorted.

“I like the sound of that.” He concluded. “A worthy enough goal. Though I'll admit, I've never heard that before. It has a validity to it. Find what you want to do. With yourself, with your life. Focus on that, and fulfillment – as you once said to me... It will come. The path through life is not straight, it is winding. You will not always go forward, you will take many backward steps, trip and fall on your path. But remain true and you'll end up somewhere, doing something, you'll be someone.”

They sat in silence for a while, with Tyr panting and resting his battered body and Thomas sitting in silent solace upon the boulder. The man hadn't moved a single muscle other than to lift his cup to his lips. A cup that never seemed to empty, leaving Tyr wondering if he was actually drinking the tea within.

“Old man, what's in the cup--”

Thomas turned to look at him, and interrupting Tyr. “How do you feel about women?”

“...What?” Tyr was baffled at the sudden question. Five... Perhaps even ten minutes of silence, and the man begins asking about the opposite sex? “What do you mean, how do I feel about women?”

“What is the purpose of a woman?” Thomas asked, moving his head only slightly to stare down at Tyr with his dark hooded eyes. Now that Tyr had had the time to measure the man over moons spent training, he very much looked the part of a Varian man. A Varian man that had somehow spent his youth in the republic before ending up in eastern Sinea. It was a strange backstory, an interesting one. Thomas didn't talk about himself a lot.

He was still confused by the question. “The purpose of a woman?”

“Yes.” Thomas replied, but that was all. No elaboration whatsoever. Tyr hated it when he did this, and the old man did it often. It reminded him of his father, and yet his teacher was different in so many other ways. Thomas would ask the most bizarre, off the wall, open ended questions possible – and refuse to explain why or what he was truly asking.

“You're not one of those 'woke' Lyran liberals, are you?” Tyr asked, head still tilted in contemplation of the question. The purpose of a woman? Tyr had heard that the politicians of the Lyran Republic were like that, but it was still a strange thing to ask. 'Give us your tired your poor...', it was an odd place, that republic. The home of the fourth primus, a man who was hardly ever seen in public if rumor was to be true. Tyr had never met Alexandros, nor had he visited, only knew that he existed. Jartor had said that Alexandros was there when the prince was born, though. He was probably the most mysterious of all the primus', Tyr knew nothing about him.

Thomas snorted, turning away. He didn't reply, but Tyr knew that the man still wanted for an answer.

“She, the singular. This woman in question can do what she want. All individuals deserve the freedom to choose their path, this is the imperial way. The purpose of a woman is no different than asking the purpose of a man.”

“Progressive... For an imperial. 'The imperial way', you say, and yet there are no women among your so called 'black guard' that I've seen prowling around the village, nor your fathers kingsguard. Or so I've been told.” Thomas observed this with a soft smile. He was baiting Tyr, just slightly, but the prince had no idea why.

“Women in the empire make for our most powerful mages. As far as knights, I've not given much thought to it. One of my wives, her name is Sigi. She is a greater warrior than I. Hailing from the northern kingdoms across the sea, instructed is Oresund. She is a woman, yet I do not hate her for her martial superiority. To answer your question more appropriately, I am far too selfish to care what gender or race someone holds. If they can bring me benefits, I will use them, the idea that a man or woman or otherwise is differently due to their birth is a weakness. Someone sort of like an Uncle to me told me this once, if it makes dollars it makes cents. I have no idea what a dollar is but I sort of get what he means now.”

“Does she hate you because you are weak?” Thomas asked, genuine curiosity present on his face. Tyr had never spoken of any woman, except his mother when lost in his rage at a nasty comment.

“Maybe.” Tyr shrugged, unworried. “She has won our sparring sessions more times than I have, and I always try my best. I don't think she hates me, not really. If any of my wives were okay with our arrangement, it is probably her.”

Thomas nodded in satisfaction at this, matter closed. Whatever he was looking to have answered, he seemed to have found it, moving on to yet another question. “How many friends do you have?”

“A knight of my guard. Tiber.” Tyr provided. Tiber would surely qualify as his friend. Perhaps his only friend. “He is not here. He's a grumpy old bastard like you.”

Laughing again, Thomas probed the response he was given. Tiber's age, which Tyr provided. Forty two years, approximately. He wasn't one to keep with the tracking of time, and neither had his father. In the consideration of a primus, a decade was no significant thing. Tyr had never celebrated his birthday like the other children in the palace either, he only knew he was 17 because his 16th had been met with a ceremony. Not a celebration, but he'd been given his crown and official position a little over a year ago. Tyr had no idea where the crown was. There was a scepter, too, but he tossed them somewhere and forgot about them.

“So, you have no friends?” Thomas asked.

“I've just told you. Tiber is my friend. He watches my back and scolds me when I've been wronged. If I am hungry, he will see to my appetite. I would do the same for him. My instructors mostly say friends are a liability, Uncle Don says he doesn't have friends – only associates, and... I haven't been in the best position to make many of my own, I'll admit. But Tiber is most certainly my friend.”

In reality, Tyr wasn't sure if that were true. What was a friend? He'd read of them, watched as men embraced one another or slapped a hand to their partners back. There was an equality and singular purpose to friendship. Not of benefit or duty, but of equity and... He didn't know, only that friends were equals. Tiber obeyed his orders, at least officially. Tiber was not his friend. He was a teacher, or an uncle in name, but not a 'friend'. Tyr had no friends, and that seemed to depress him somewhat. He had no equals of a similar age by which to share in adventures or dramas, or speak to. Even the men of the blackguard served him with a purpose. Tyr might have their loyalty but they were here because he paid them to be.

“A familial bond, even that which is not of blood, is not a friend. If there are no other names to provide, then I can say honestly that you have no friends.” Thomas concluded. “That is a sad thing. To have not one friend in your life. I have had many, though how many still find themselves among the living, I wouldn't know. In my age, that tends to happen. When you find a friend...” The old man paused in quiet contemplation of the sunset. “When you find a friend, you will find your way. I hope, as your elder, that you find many friends. Vile little creature or not, everybody deserves a friend, without them life can be meaningless.”

“Eat my ass, old man.” Tyr whispered, expecting a slap, but none came. Thomas smiled. Still staring out over the horizon as both men, young and old, sat in quiet contemplation of what was or would be.