"I’ve come to the conclusion that there are many whetstones in life. Many appear only as regular stone, obstacles that will put bumps and ridges on your blade, but that’s seen through too narrow a view. Any experience can be a learning one if you allow it, if you allow it to sharpen yourself and prepare you for what similar lessons. But there’s a terrible truth about whetstones, that edge doesn’t come for free. With every pass, the whetstones put a sharper edge on your blade, by taking material off.”

Ranvir hissed out a breath as he pushed off the mattress, grunting with effort as he forced himself to stand. He glared defiantly at where the cane had fallen on the floor after Amalia’d left it. He hadn’t touched it for… he blinked, two weeks.

He shook his head and stepped over to Frija, who was happily sleeping in her crib. For a change, he’d got up before her. She was seven months or, or close enough now, Ranvir shook his head at the time passed. He could hardly believe it.

He flexed his hand, focusing on each finger as they curled in and out. The doctor had said it healed fine, but they felt stiff and weak to him, though if he was being honest, most of his limbs were feeling stiffer and weaker by the day.

He was deteriorating, there was no denying that. Ranvir could excuse an eighteen-year-old groaning and struggling out of bed, but not after lying in it for over an hour. He wiped at long gone sleep from his eyes as he lingered over his daughter. He hesitated over what to do. Usually he’d take her out to the orphanage’s kitchen and feed her there, but his arms shook just from the idea.

Someone’s bare feet slapped on the hardwood floor as they ran by in a full tilt sprint. More feet followed. He heard the servant kitchen’s door slam open with a bang before someone started squealing and yelling. Sighing, he reached into the crib and lifted Frija out. She would not sleep through that for much longer, anyway.

A little smile ticked at the corner of his lips as he pulled the door open, and a soft warm glow of green and yellow-gold pride flushed through him. Frija didn’t yet feel heavy in his arms. He had lost little, if any, strength, just endurance. Things that had been effortless were feeling like a slog, like the air was turning thick as water around him.

Entering the estate’s real kitchen, he found Elpir and Vasso messing about inside. Vasso moved slowly and deliberately, his hair curling thickly around his head in despite having some decent length to it, though it was drooping ever so slightly.

“Good morning,” Elpir said, stirring something on the stove. Without the regular use of Ione’s translation powers, he’d been made to brute force the language, learning it the hard way. Even after only three weeks he was fairly conversational, if you stayed on pre-approved topics, like the weather and children’s stories.

“Good morning,” Ranvir replied as Frija was awakened by the scents in the room, stretching and yawning against his shoulder. He pointed at a small bowl that had been set aside, and Elpir nodded. He smiled and thanked her before depositing Frija in the baby chair.

Getting his daughter's food ready took a little while as he had to make sure the mash wasn’t too hot, had to get the bib on her, had to decide if he wanted her to try feeding herself or if he should just do it. It seemed she complained a lot more when he fed her, but it only took a fraction of the time.

Then again, Ranvir thought, what am I really rushing to do?

Grabbing a smaller wooden spoon as he didn’t trust her with metal, yet, he a bit of her breakfast in front of her and offered her the spoon. Frija reached for it clumsily, still lacking much of her motor control. The doctor had said it was fine to let her feed herself, so long as he was careful and she didn’t accidentally get hurt.

A worrisome idea, but it hadn’t come up during actual dinner time yet.

As suspected, breakfast took much longer than if he’d just fed her as Frija started babbling and waving the spoon about, or she’d throw food on the floor and start giggling, or even just grabbing a fistful of the mush and shove it into her face, neck, and hair.

All the while, Elpir would talk to him. He was approaching a level where he was understanding enough that he could figure out the conversation through context. He still wasn’t much of a conversationalist himself. Then again, he hadn’t been in elensk either.

He had figured out that while she received a stipend from the King, the estate had come from her father, however. Ranvir got the picture he wasn’t involved anymore, though she easily dodged any attempts he made at leaning the conversation in parental directions.

Not that he minded missing that specific topic.

After eating, he sat with Frija as she played with toys. Mostly it was more of the same as breakfast, with her picking things up and putting them down where they weren’t supposed to be. But it was fascinating to see how fast she was crawling around. Approaching midday, Frija was tired again.

And so was he.

He picked up one of the children’s books and got on the bed, with her in his lap. It only took a few moments before Vasso showed up, gently opening the door to peer inside. He said nothing, but ever since he’d caught Ranvir reading to Frija before her midday nap, he’d come.

The hint of burn scars could be seen through the collar of his shirt and from his hairline. Ranvir lacked the specifics of his situation because of the language barrier, but he knew the scars and his presence at the orphanage were related.

Ranvir guessed the kid to be around nine or ten years old. He padded across the floor and silently sat on his opposite side as Ranvir opened the book. Vasso was wearing hand-me-down clothes given to Elpir by the other townspeople, in his case a faded once yellow shirt and a pair of dark shorts. They never wore shoes indoors, always taking their sandals off before entering the home.

Vasso tapped his jaw twice, looking up at Ranvir and waiting expectantly. Smiling tiredly back, Ranvir tapped his own jaw twice. The kid scooted a little closer so he could see what the drawings on the cover.

He could somewhat read the book; understanding just enough to follow the story, though some of the finer details were left out.

The story opened with a man of no specific distinction, other than a desire to be great. He hadn’t yet decided how or at what, but he would be great at. It just so happened that during the time of his search, his country fell into war against their neighbor. Seeing this as a great opportunity with a goal as grand and good as any other, the man joined the army.

Throughout training, he was revealed to be exceptionally average at everything they set before him. He never fell behind in running, but was never the first in their pack. He wasn’t the greatest fighter, but he also wasn’t the worst. Anywhere he went, he landed in the middle of the pack.

So it was with heavy resignation that he entered the battlefield with his squad. He had not proven himself great at anything, and now they were going into battle. How was he ever going to stand out from the crowd?

So he was shocked when he found out the truth about war. It wasn’t about who had the greatest sword arm, nor the fastest feet. He was surprised to feel how hard it was to keep his composure when war surrounded him. It had felt so distant during training, but with immediacy of his environs, it was suddenly a different beast.

But the man survived his first battle. And he had a plan. He knew now of a path to make himself stand out. If he could control his expressions when, where, and how he reacted to his emotions, he could become a great warrior.

So the man set out to find Semele, the Godling of Dance, Song, and Emotion. He pleaded with it to grant him a boon to let him control his composure. Allow his spirit to supersede the compulsion of his body.

Semele understood why the man sought its gift, but it warned him that there would be consequences. Semele’s sister, Eudokia, was as envious as she was loving. But the man was certain. He had goals to achieve and only the Middlechild could grant them. So it was that when he felt the Godling’s blessing settle upon him, he felt the hidden touch of the Daughter as well.

But he knew not what she’d done and cared little for he already felt the potency of Semele’s gift. He hurried back to the battlefield, enforcing a deadly calm on himself as he fought on the battlefield, then fueled that fighting with an inhuman patience and endurance.

It didn’t take long before the higher-ups in the military started taking notice. He was doing well in the field was soon sent out more and more often. Each day, he was sent to a new fight, and each night he returned victorious. Each day he would fight new enemies of his people and each night he’d return filled with the images of the battlefield. And each night he employed the Godling’s gift and suppressed them.

Time passed, and the winds swept through years until the man’s name was on everyone’s lips. There wasn’t a village from the river of Nysena to the Apion Sea that didn’t whisper of his exploits in taverns and around fireplaces.

Ranvir was growing tired from leaning over the book and supporting Frija. He tenderly shifted to put his back against the wall, though it made reading the book more awkward as his daughter had grown sleepy and was now resting against his belly.

Vasso cleared his throat and put a finger on the line Ranvir’d reached. He looked up at Ranvir before speaking for the first time since he’d arrived.

“The man had become great,” Vasso began.

The man had become great, and he’d grown old as well. A rare thing for a warrior. Now, even his age was worthy of note, another outstanding achievement. The man retreated from the battles, his armor so decorated with pins and medals that they’d had to create a special ceremonial breastplate, just to fit them all.

But he felt no joy. Not even when he relaxed his Godlings’ gift. No happiness, no sense of achievement. He didn’t even feel the desire to tell of his tale to the kids that visited his opulent home. He used Semele’s gift to dig through his emotions, trying to bring forth those emotions, but they’d spent too many years under his heel. There was nothing left of them.

Nothing of joy, or excitement, or satisfaction. The man tried and tried, searching for all his great feelings. No love, no desire, no passion. He even dug into his less fortunate feelings, but they didn’t respond either. No fear, no sadness, no anxiety.

It was only when he felt one last emotion that had been kept alive by a spark not unlike the one that had driven him to his goals. Hate.

Eudokia, The Goddess of Love, Celebrations, and Hate. Her curse revealed itself at last.

Ranvir blinked, staring down at the book as Vasso turned the last page and closed the book.

“That’s it?” He whispered. “That’s a children’s book?”

Vasso nodded solemnly, but didn’t speak. His eyes had a haunted quality to them as he put the book in his lap.