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nathanialroyaleTitle: Joscelin`s Story
Rating: (PG-13)
Content Notes/Warnings: This is long! The sayings are either Buddhist, Confucius or made by me, they are a show of Blade Dancing Philosophy.
Joscelin Quele is in the novels largely referenced as Nathanial`s son and the next heir to the throne, however he is far more complicated then that. He has lived two lives, one of war where he was a General on the battlefield unable to ever come to his loved ones, and one where he grew up with scars of not only his last life but the past of Nathanial his mother. It shaped him into the man he is in the novels, and I have always wanted to map out his entire life.
Mentions of Violence/Death
Main Character/s: Joscelin Quele, Wil'helm, Nathanial Peter Quele Royale, and many others.
Plot: Two lifetimes written out in 5,145 words.
Location: illander Castle, Dire Cry, The Border Forest.
Peace comes from within. Do not seek it without.
Joscelin had lived in the Mellimel’disiel for all of his short years; he had been born upon the wooden table in the Esittä Clar'gyse. The Sacred place where the elves had been once long ago shaped from the very trees of the forest and given life and shared their first meal together. Joscelin had not been close to his parents of flesh, Tarja and Adair. The throne kept them away, and so the boy was raised by the Elder trees. Joscelin had danced for those trees, learned to sing from the Sacred Elder trees that moved; casting radiance of purple and blue from their leaves upon the elf child in their midst. The beating of the Elder trees hearts sang in the boy’s blood and he had joy.
Life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes. Don't resist them-that only creates sorrow. Let reality be reality. Let things flow naturally forward unimpeded, like a river to the sea.
It began with a goodbye. Whispered words of encouragement, farewell and love, and pushed away toward a place that made him shy away. He was 20 when his parents left him at the Blade Dancing Academy. There was too much death in the place, sorrow and suffering, which he could not understand. The trees here did not sing, they did not speak, and their hearts could not beat. Joscelin had been torn from a world where spirits and trees sang, and breathed with life to a place of death. He recoiled the first time his fingertips touched the wood of the Academy, for the trees that made this place had cried! They had wailed; they had been filled with agony! This was not right, not right at all. His skin crawled and he cried as the older men persuaded him to come inside. Why were the trees hurting so much? Why did they not speak? Not sing? Joscelin knew nothing of death, and of sorrow, but he would learn.
There were no names in that place, none of the boys had names and even the older men; the Blade Dancers did not call themselves by names. It stripped away the individual and made you one of many, for you were not one person, you were an elf, one of all. No better than any other, no worse, you were meant to protect elf kind. Protect the Mellimel’disiel, and each other with your life. Joscelin was given the title of ‘Silver’, for the long silver hair he had grown, it did not matter he was a Prince, no one knew, not even the Blade Dancers themselves. All were equal in the training, in the treatment; respect was earned through right of arms.
Honour those who have fallen before you, but strive to do what they could not; live.
Joscelin tried to make friends wanting closeness and connection but it was difficult, the training was hard and long. They never had time to speak, and then slowly the boys began to disappear. He heard that they had failed, and they had not managed to pass the tests. Slowly with time the graves behind the room where they slept increased. And once a week in the eve, every Dancer and student would go to the gravestones and they would raise their voices, they would sing. But these songs were a Dirge for the dead, all happiness lost. Disillusion of his childhood disappearing Joscelin came to realize this was his reality. But he did not fall, he did not wallow, he could still remember the life of trees beneath his fingers and the songs of life in his ears. And so he trained, he poured himself like water into the training, allowing himself to be bent and shaped. The Dirge of this dead place would protect the life of the Elder trees; the sacrifices made here by them would never be in vain for the protection of those who lived.
Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.
Training was from before the sun rose till sunset, at least for the younger students. The older trained longer, but the training was not all physical. Blade Dancers were not just strong brutes, they were taught to be superior to all other warriors, human or Elven. They were protectors, philosophers, thinkers, to Blade Dance was not to war, was not to kill. It was a life style, a philosophy, a religion. Blade Dancers were defenders, warriors, diplomats, courtiers, mages all wrapped into one child. The children learned how to write, to read, to recite and create poetry. To sing, and dance. There were classes on tactics, acrobatics, athletics, and endurance. For the young ones this was taught through games and fun, it allowed the children to still be children until they past their 80th year.
Everything, absolutely everything you do, everything you live for, is to be a better Blade Dancer! To serve, to protect, to live!
After eighty the students began to learn more vigorously, longer classes, longer duels. Failure was not an option; if you failed you would die. No one knew Joscelin was the heir apparent, and if they had, there would have been no difference. Every elf was equal to the next when it came to life, when it came to death. The boys were beginning to learn why there were so many graves and they fought on with a passion to not be one of those who was buried. There was no alternative, you were a Blade Dancer or you were dead. And to protect elf kind was an honor, to go home as a Blade Dancer was what every boy in the Academy yearned for, fought for with every ragged breath and broken bone.
The will to win, the desire to succeed, the urge to reach your full potential... these are the keys that will unlock the door to personal excellence.
The philosophy of Blade Dancing was subtly taught over long years, the students that passed their final test were 250 years old and had been training at the academy for 230 years. Along with the many teachings, there was a fundamental rule of Blade Dancing that no Blade Dancer forgot, it was a mantra. Whispered before battle, prayed before the night, sung as a Dirge for those who were lost, no student could forget the hollowed words.
Life is suffering, to suffer is to know mortality, and suffering creates strength. Giving into suffering creates weakness and cowardice, embrace the suffering but do not let it hinder you.
Joscelin was 142 years old when the King’s guard arrived at the Academy looking for him. It took the eldest Blade Dancer at the academy looking through the files of the boys to find which one had the birth name of Joscelin. Pulled aside he was told of his past that he had nearly forgotten, given a name once again that he had never known and was told by the Knights that his parents were dead. He felt sorrow that they had passed on before their time but he could feel nothing more as he had never known them. We should feel sorrow, but not sink under its oppression. Told that he was King and he must lead Camar’a he looked back at the Academy that was filled with such sorrows and death, the only place he could recall with any detail. And again he felt nothing, no pang of loss, no sense of regret...
Do not dwell in the past; do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.
Still with broken bones he left the Mellimel’disiel for the first time in his life and constrictions seized his heart, pulled away from that place he was meant to protect. But what better way to protect the wood and his kin then to be King? He forced a steel face and showed nothing as they passed through endless fields of corn and barley to the capitol and the castle. Once again Joscelin could feel little life within this place but he had become so accustomed it did not bother him. He took up the throne in ceremony before the masses, only one hundred forty two with no knowledge of the common tongue. It was kept from him for a few months the devastation Dire Cry was wracking on his people to the north, until the Eldest Blade Dancer came to the castle and bowed deeply to him and spoke of war.
There is nothing more dreadful than the habit of doubt. Doubt separates people. It is a poison that disintegrates friendships and breaks up pleasant relations. It is a thorn that irritates and hurts; it is a sword that kills.
No one realised how bad it truly was, Joscelin took a small band of Elven rangers leaving the Blade Dancers in the Mellim to protect the elves and moved up north. It was not difficult to find the devastation; one just had to look for plumes of smoke that fed off the flames of destroyed villages. This particular village did not even have a name, it was ‘only’ a human settlement, of little note to the Elves on council. Had anyone even known people had lived there until this day? Would anyone but they who did not even know these people’s names mourn their passing? Seek justice on their behalf? What justice could be sought? What could he possibly do for these people now? Seek their murderers beyond the Dire Cry borders and risk war upon his country? That would only bring more deaths and he would have brought nothing but strife to his beloved homeland.
There was bile in his throat; he could nearly taste it on his tongue. Yet no, he would not look away. Couldn’t look away. Do not dishonor the dead. Not with your cowardice. Meeting the blank eyed stare of every man, woman and child. There was mutterings from his men; a few knelt by sides of those long gone, too far to save. Many were mutilated; corpses that one would never know were beautiful and vibrant in life. At last his eyes lay on the fallen form of a raider. This man who with others had killed so many, raped and maimed. Tortured and destroyed. But would it not make him as alike or worse then they to extract revenge upon a corpse? No, he could not. Eyes jerking away from the form to calm himself. All are alike in death. The man would be judged in Alasse Cir and found guilty or innocent before the Gods. They were the ones to decide his fate, it was their place. Not his.
Love is of all passions the strongest, for it attacks simultaneously the head, the heart and the senses.
It was in that village that Joscelin rescued a boy from a burning building, both falling unconscious from the smoke. It was from that village that Joscelin learned of love. Night fell and he woke weak to the sounds of laughter, and a small frightened cry, and built within him was an anger he staunched. But the protective instincts of the Blade Dancer within would not go unanswered and he pulled himself to his feet still dizzy, uncaring of his injuries. A man that had had his wrists broken more times than could be counted, broken ribs, broken ankles, all from training ignored the weakness of his body. He found his men playing a cruel game to the human boy he had saved, pushing him between them in a circle with delight that made them look like beasts. To see the right and not to do it is cowardice. “Let him go!” And the night Joscelin shared his tent with the adolescent human boy changed everything for the Blade Dancing King.
The boy spoke stuttering Sere’th, and the King spoke little common but they managed to communicate. And on the way back to the capitol they taught each other the other’s tongue. Joscelin learned the boy’s name was Wil’helm, and how intelligent and learned he was. They shared interests and laughed, Joscelin sang for the boy, and he listened as Wil’helm spoke of how bad the war had become in the north and how humans were uncared for. Joscelin gave an oath to him to change that, and when he arrived in Illander he did as he had sworn he would.
When armies are mobilized and issues are joined, the man who is sorry over the fact will win.
Joscelin was the first King to mobilize a force of humans, Wood Elves, High Elves, Mixed Blood elves and half elves together under one banner. He swore to his men that he would be the one to call the prayers to the Gods on the battlefield, the one to run first into the fray. He took up Wil’helm’s hand and without care for judgment lifted it to the sky declaring that Wil’helm was his consort, and that he too was leaving a loved one behind. That this war was of necessity, and he had no wish for the deaths to come on both sides, and that the Dirge of the dead would be sung for those who passed. He took up arms and he led his country to war, always dressed in silvers so he was the first target the enemy saw. His councilors called him reckless, to do such a thing with no heir but he starred hard at those men who sat behind tables and spoke that he did nothing he would not expect the rest of his men to do for him.
It is better to conquer yourself than to win a thousand battles. Then the victory is yours. It cannot be taken from you, not by angels or by demons, heaven or hell.
The Blade Dancers came two years into the war, and every one of them bowed in respect to their King and gave their oath to fight beside the King to protect the Kingdom. They pushed north from the outlaying villages up toward the border, pushing Dirian forces back with heavy casualties. Men, who have nothing to live for, have nothing to die for. Men who fight for survival are the worst enemy; they have no virtues, no honour, and will fight to their very last breath. The Dirge for the Dead was sang every eve, King’s Guards fell to protect Joscelin, Blade Dancers fell by his side and the war moved on. Joscelin had little time to return home, respites so few and far between. But Wil’helm waited, and Joscelin savoured the time he had with him.
The tongue like a sharp knife... Kills without drawing blood.
Joscelin had called a truce with the south, Royale, as a war on two fronts would have destroyed his country. But Talkran the brother of the current Royalian King was sly, crafty like many Royale’s before him and he managed to sneak his way into Illander’s halls of light. He whispered doubts into Wil’helm’s ears, and laughed at his fears. He coveted Joscelin’s body, but Joscelin unable to risk outright war could not get rid of the leech. Two more years passed and Joscelin became pregnant, and with Wil’helm went through the rituals of Quele Royalty, going to each God’s temple to ask for a blessing on the impending child. It was in Wan’an’iena’s temple that Joscelin found again another lost soul, a daughter, a girl abused and used for her gift. Joscelin freed her from her drug induced prison, and took her as his own though they were of the same age. Wil’helm renamed her, this Naerdiel, to Nilec and Nilec stayed with Wil’helm to protect him from Talkran.
When it is obvious that the goals cannot be reached, don't adjust the goals, adjust the steps.
Joscelin warred until the last month of his pregnancy; he forced his body on through pain and weakness, the loss of his magics to stay beside his men to fight. In the last month he returned for the two weeks before the birthing. He stayed close to Wil’helm, though he was irritable, unable to train, unable to fight, to study. But when the boy was born Wil’helm named him Peter and Joscelin the next morn kissed his beloved goodbye, the stitches barely healed, and he told his daughter to look after his family before once again he rode off to war. Wil’helm shed no tears, gave no wishes that his love would stay by his side. The years began to blend as war became all he knew, colder and colder, heart locked in a box to only be brought out before his children and his mate. The night he would return there would always be waiting for him, white lilies, collected in a vase upon the dresser. The room would be cloaked in the scent of the flowers and Joscelin would feel inner peace.
Eleven years had passed, time dragging on so slow as he prayed for the war to end, the body count to stop rising, and to never have to sing the Dirge again. It was finally over when having beaten back the Dirians to their desert wastelands Joscelin forged peace with the villages closest to the border. Giving the Dirians aid in water and food, his men could not understand but he knew now why the Dirians fought like men dead, with no hope. They were starving; they were thirsting and wasting away. When you are laboring for others let it be with the same zeal as if it were for yourself. They had no wish to die further and neither did he, and at last he returned to Illander to see his son 7 years grown, and take Wil’helm into his arms.
Let go of anger.
Let go of pride.
When you are bound by nothing
You go beyond sorrow.
For the first time in years Wil’helm and Joscelin had the night to themselves, away, in a small forest, Joscelin whispered to his beloved stories of the moon and of the stars. Wil’helm listened with closed eyes, a sense of serenity and calm enveloping them. The war was over, and now they could be together after turbulent times. A matter of eleven years and he had seen Wil’helm for under 2 months worth of days. But it was not to be, the evening was shattered by Talkran’s ambush from the shadows.
The whole secret of existence is to have no fear. Never fear what will become of you, depend on no one. Only the moment you reject all help are you freed.
Joscelin pulled Wil’helm behind him and he fought against the necromancer with skills and training of over one hundred twenty years of combat. But his one weakness was that of his blood, he was of Reinn’s line of blood, light flowing through his veins and darkness his weakness. He fought harder than he had ever before but at last the battle was lost and he was slammed to the ground by bonds of black magic; and Talkran sneering straddled his prize, rubbing against him. Joscelin’s eyes were stone cold up at his enemy, showing nothing, no hate, no fear. Finding that he could not break the King; Talkran enraged slashed Joscelin’s throat and watched him as he lay dying. Joscelin’s eyes finally filled with emotion looked to his mate willing him to Flee! Run! But Talkran unfurled and stood and the last memories before death were always to be Talkran advancing on his beloved, Wil’helm’s eyes glittering with tears, trembling.
Real knowledge is to know the extent of one's ignorance.
Joscelin awoke to the fields of Alasse Cir and so overcome was he with emotion that he knelt and wept onto the endless plains of wildflowers. He felt hands settle onto his shaking shoulders and arms wrap about him in comfort. His birth name was whispered in his ears and he found that he was not alone; Tarja and Adair were with him. He knew not what had happened to Wil’helm but he knew he could not change fates and so he took joy from Paradise. His death had been deemed honorable and for eternity he would walk the fields with the Telemnar, angel kind, and speak to Gods. Tarja who had been a prophet of Sjel cried upon his arm for the childhood he had lost but he had hugged her to him and spoke no words. His life had been what it had been, and he felt no regrets, no shames, he had died in virtue and honor. And so he stayed for years until the day came when a child that did not belong in the Heavens came to him.
Faced with what is right, to leave it undone shows a lack of courage.
Nathanial his grandchild told him of an alliance having been formed with Royale, and he felt anger arise again in his heart for his and Wil’helm’s deaths. He did not know for certain of his beloved’s death but he could guess what befell the poor boy. But he listened as he must to Nathan’s words and the boy beseeched him to come back, to ask Sjel to be reborn as his son so once more Joscelin could take the throne and lead his people. Joscelin turned his back on peace, on the reward that had been received for his death and he agreed to come back to protect the world once more. He would have no rest.
The scars you can't see are the hardest to heal.
A new life, but his mind fought with itself, he was Joscelin, King/General and Blade Dancing student. He was a diplomat, a mage, a ranger and a protector. But he was also of Nathanial’s loins which made him what he had never been before, emotional, knowing of sorrows beyond anything he had known before. The mix created an altruist protector, someone who would do anything for those he loved at cost to himself, to protect and never fail in his duty again. Every child born of two males had a signature upon them of the male ‘mother’, a mental and physical marker of remembrance. The scars on his back from Nathanial’s past were nothing to the scars upon his mind of both lifetimes; he had the memories of his own past as well as Nathanial’s. He could be cold and callous, meticulous and a tactician. Then he could be a lost child, wanting the feeling of being whole, of love and comfort. No one could understand the scars on his mind and heart.
Joscelin was nearly 3 when Kallion was saved from enslavement. The child’s wings had been molding, tears leaking from pain and fear. The boy did not know how to walk very well, his muscles stiff and joints aching from what had happened to him before. Joscelin even at a young age was determined to teach his new brother how to walk, and to talk when he would not. Kallion when he began to trust learned quickly, but there was always sorrow to his eyes that Joscelin understood to well. Two children who had seen too much and the scars were not liable to heal.
When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be.
Nathanial died too young, far too young, and Joscelin could not go to his father for the comfort as a child once again he required. He was alone, no Elder trees to sing to him here in this city that was filled with death like the Academy. He once again trained, forcing his body to do more then it could and rightly should, taking pride that Riq’ua the Master and Eldest Blade Dancer was his personal teacher. Pouring himself into his training once more, he had died honorably last life but he not been a true Blade Dancer. This life he would be, he would be everything he had ever wished to be and more. Nathanial’s memories gripped his sleep and he dreamt of torture and suffering, for the first time in ages Joscelin felt fear. He could not get away from what he dreamt and slowly it changed him, molded him like the Blade Dancing had before.
The only real failure in life is not to be true to the best one knows.
Raunien had been born too soon to Nathanial’s death, the boy had been 3 months when Nathan had passed on and he was given to the militia far too soon as well. Raunien was a bastard and a human one at that; he was useless to the court so he would be reared as a common bastard. Joscelin tried to keep the three of them together as he knew they needed one another, but they were constantly pulled apart. Joscelin tried to hold the family together, and in the nights when cousin Mallie visited it was often that he held both in his arms. His cousin and his brother who cried, but could not speak of what made them do so, would be wrapped in his embrace to try to sleep without nightmares.
It was after Mallie left Camar’a that Kallion joined the Empyrean Order, the Paladin order of Reinn and Joscelin lost contact with him. Raunien was trying his hardest to move up ranks without interference, he was the King’s bastard but he swore to make it on his own, Joscelin was proud of him. Joscelin pulled aside Raunien forcing him to learn how to read and write, not caring that Raunien gave protest that he would never use it. Raunien was a Quele and no Quele was going to be illiterate and stupid!
Work out your own salvation. Do not depend on others.
Joscelin put in for the Border Wardens, wanting experience in combat once again and knowing he owed military service time to the Kingdom. It was not expected that he would be chosen to Command the small contingent of Wardens, all of whom were older than he. The men had looked on him with suspicion at first, disbelieving him for his age alone. The next month showed them that he was able; the undead had been growing in number over the years of Amissio, the Age of Loss after Nathanial’s death. It was twelve men against a forest that moved, lashed out and hated, twisted by the darkness of necromancy that had filled it for years now. There was barely any rest, the elves staying up days to allow their human companions to sleep where they did not need to. The elves meditated when they could but days would pass without pause, and they held no trust of one another.
By the month’s end; the men finally looked past racial superstitions and hatreds, Joscelin working with the men like he had his life before; a trust forming beyond age, station and race.
Respect yourself and others will respect you.
The years passed by, Joscelin became closer to his father, both needing connection, needing comfort. Damion saw Nathanial in his child, blood of his blood, and Joscelin had no wish to be alone. Mutual benefit and both knew they were using each other.
Into his teen years Joscelin understood the sacrifice that was required of him. He would marry Jay and give peace to his country, another war of sorts, just a different kind this time. Joscelin did not care, his world’s peace was what was important to him, he would make the marriage work or he would die trying.
A Blade Dancer thinks always of virtue; the common man thinks of comfort.
Joscelin had come back to protect his Kingdom, give peace to his world in any way he had to, through combat or through personal warfare, through blood and tears. He was going to be King again and this time he would not fail, he would become a true Blade Dancer, even if that meant having to sacrifice his own happiness. What was one life? His life? To the lives of those on his world? Nothing, nothing at all. His life was worth just as much or as little as the man who stood beside him or behind him on the field, as the woman who waited at home for her husband. Every life had its worth, and they were equal in the end. Who was to say that a scholar from a tiny unknown village would not grow up to sire a King? That a boy who had lived through hell, an altruist and fatalist could not rise beyond himself on the road to take back his throne?
When we see persons of worth, we should think of equalling them; when we see persons of a contrary character, we should turn inwards and examine ourselves.
Joscelin lived for his Kingdom, for the future, held his emotions in as befit a Blade Dancer, but that did not mean he did not envy. He had the emotions of Nathanial but he could not show them, he was expected to be a warrior King. Nathanial had been able to show the weakness of his emotions because he had been young, had lived through hell... But Joscelin had to bottle it all inside, looking to a future of being married to the son of a tyrant of the land he had warred against last life. But he told himself he would make the marriage work, that he would not have to sacrifice his happiness once again for the Kingdom.
20 years old he starred into albino pink eyes, his hand held by a hand too cold, a hand of a vampire, Jay starring into his own lavender eyes. There was pain behind those eyes, a sorrow far too much like Kallion's and his own, like Mallie's... But the flicker of emotion disappeared in a heartbeat, the cocky mask taking its place and Joscelin's eyes narrowed. He would find out this time, he would know why that sorrow was stifling the man he was engaged to. He had no love for Jay, the marriage was politics, but that did not mean the marriage had to fail. "I'll find out what you fear." The albino pink eyes narrowed suspiciously, but after a moment the desert prince inclined his head silently seeing that Joscelin was true.
"I would like to try to love you, Jay, son of Nilec."
"...I would like that as well Joscelin, son of Nathanial."
"Then we will try, for our Kingdom's peace, and for ourselves."
"...I would like peace, it is not something I have felt in my life."
"I have not known it well myself, so then, we shall learn of peace together."
Hope never abandons you, you abandon it.
Rating: (PG-13)
Content Notes/Warnings: This is long! The sayings are either Buddhist, Confucius or made by me, they are a show of Blade Dancing Philosophy.
Joscelin Quele is in the novels largely referenced as Nathanial`s son and the next heir to the throne, however he is far more complicated then that. He has lived two lives, one of war where he was a General on the battlefield unable to ever come to his loved ones, and one where he grew up with scars of not only his last life but the past of Nathanial his mother. It shaped him into the man he is in the novels, and I have always wanted to map out his entire life.
Mentions of Violence/Death
Main Character/s: Joscelin Quele, Wil'helm, Nathanial Peter Quele Royale, and many others.
Plot: Two lifetimes written out in 5,145 words.
Location: illander Castle, Dire Cry, The Border Forest.
Peace comes from within. Do not seek it without.
Joscelin had lived in the Mellimel’disiel for all of his short years; he had been born upon the wooden table in the Esittä Clar'gyse. The Sacred place where the elves had been once long ago shaped from the very trees of the forest and given life and shared their first meal together. Joscelin had not been close to his parents of flesh, Tarja and Adair. The throne kept them away, and so the boy was raised by the Elder trees. Joscelin had danced for those trees, learned to sing from the Sacred Elder trees that moved; casting radiance of purple and blue from their leaves upon the elf child in their midst. The beating of the Elder trees hearts sang in the boy’s blood and he had joy.
Life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes. Don't resist them-that only creates sorrow. Let reality be reality. Let things flow naturally forward unimpeded, like a river to the sea.
It began with a goodbye. Whispered words of encouragement, farewell and love, and pushed away toward a place that made him shy away. He was 20 when his parents left him at the Blade Dancing Academy. There was too much death in the place, sorrow and suffering, which he could not understand. The trees here did not sing, they did not speak, and their hearts could not beat. Joscelin had been torn from a world where spirits and trees sang, and breathed with life to a place of death. He recoiled the first time his fingertips touched the wood of the Academy, for the trees that made this place had cried! They had wailed; they had been filled with agony! This was not right, not right at all. His skin crawled and he cried as the older men persuaded him to come inside. Why were the trees hurting so much? Why did they not speak? Not sing? Joscelin knew nothing of death, and of sorrow, but he would learn.
There were no names in that place, none of the boys had names and even the older men; the Blade Dancers did not call themselves by names. It stripped away the individual and made you one of many, for you were not one person, you were an elf, one of all. No better than any other, no worse, you were meant to protect elf kind. Protect the Mellimel’disiel, and each other with your life. Joscelin was given the title of ‘Silver’, for the long silver hair he had grown, it did not matter he was a Prince, no one knew, not even the Blade Dancers themselves. All were equal in the training, in the treatment; respect was earned through right of arms.
Honour those who have fallen before you, but strive to do what they could not; live.
Joscelin tried to make friends wanting closeness and connection but it was difficult, the training was hard and long. They never had time to speak, and then slowly the boys began to disappear. He heard that they had failed, and they had not managed to pass the tests. Slowly with time the graves behind the room where they slept increased. And once a week in the eve, every Dancer and student would go to the gravestones and they would raise their voices, they would sing. But these songs were a Dirge for the dead, all happiness lost. Disillusion of his childhood disappearing Joscelin came to realize this was his reality. But he did not fall, he did not wallow, he could still remember the life of trees beneath his fingers and the songs of life in his ears. And so he trained, he poured himself like water into the training, allowing himself to be bent and shaped. The Dirge of this dead place would protect the life of the Elder trees; the sacrifices made here by them would never be in vain for the protection of those who lived.
Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.
Training was from before the sun rose till sunset, at least for the younger students. The older trained longer, but the training was not all physical. Blade Dancers were not just strong brutes, they were taught to be superior to all other warriors, human or Elven. They were protectors, philosophers, thinkers, to Blade Dance was not to war, was not to kill. It was a life style, a philosophy, a religion. Blade Dancers were defenders, warriors, diplomats, courtiers, mages all wrapped into one child. The children learned how to write, to read, to recite and create poetry. To sing, and dance. There were classes on tactics, acrobatics, athletics, and endurance. For the young ones this was taught through games and fun, it allowed the children to still be children until they past their 80th year.
Everything, absolutely everything you do, everything you live for, is to be a better Blade Dancer! To serve, to protect, to live!
After eighty the students began to learn more vigorously, longer classes, longer duels. Failure was not an option; if you failed you would die. No one knew Joscelin was the heir apparent, and if they had, there would have been no difference. Every elf was equal to the next when it came to life, when it came to death. The boys were beginning to learn why there were so many graves and they fought on with a passion to not be one of those who was buried. There was no alternative, you were a Blade Dancer or you were dead. And to protect elf kind was an honor, to go home as a Blade Dancer was what every boy in the Academy yearned for, fought for with every ragged breath and broken bone.
The will to win, the desire to succeed, the urge to reach your full potential... these are the keys that will unlock the door to personal excellence.
The philosophy of Blade Dancing was subtly taught over long years, the students that passed their final test were 250 years old and had been training at the academy for 230 years. Along with the many teachings, there was a fundamental rule of Blade Dancing that no Blade Dancer forgot, it was a mantra. Whispered before battle, prayed before the night, sung as a Dirge for those who were lost, no student could forget the hollowed words.
Life is suffering, to suffer is to know mortality, and suffering creates strength. Giving into suffering creates weakness and cowardice, embrace the suffering but do not let it hinder you.
Joscelin was 142 years old when the King’s guard arrived at the Academy looking for him. It took the eldest Blade Dancer at the academy looking through the files of the boys to find which one had the birth name of Joscelin. Pulled aside he was told of his past that he had nearly forgotten, given a name once again that he had never known and was told by the Knights that his parents were dead. He felt sorrow that they had passed on before their time but he could feel nothing more as he had never known them. We should feel sorrow, but not sink under its oppression. Told that he was King and he must lead Camar’a he looked back at the Academy that was filled with such sorrows and death, the only place he could recall with any detail. And again he felt nothing, no pang of loss, no sense of regret...
Do not dwell in the past; do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.
Still with broken bones he left the Mellimel’disiel for the first time in his life and constrictions seized his heart, pulled away from that place he was meant to protect. But what better way to protect the wood and his kin then to be King? He forced a steel face and showed nothing as they passed through endless fields of corn and barley to the capitol and the castle. Once again Joscelin could feel little life within this place but he had become so accustomed it did not bother him. He took up the throne in ceremony before the masses, only one hundred forty two with no knowledge of the common tongue. It was kept from him for a few months the devastation Dire Cry was wracking on his people to the north, until the Eldest Blade Dancer came to the castle and bowed deeply to him and spoke of war.
There is nothing more dreadful than the habit of doubt. Doubt separates people. It is a poison that disintegrates friendships and breaks up pleasant relations. It is a thorn that irritates and hurts; it is a sword that kills.
No one realised how bad it truly was, Joscelin took a small band of Elven rangers leaving the Blade Dancers in the Mellim to protect the elves and moved up north. It was not difficult to find the devastation; one just had to look for plumes of smoke that fed off the flames of destroyed villages. This particular village did not even have a name, it was ‘only’ a human settlement, of little note to the Elves on council. Had anyone even known people had lived there until this day? Would anyone but they who did not even know these people’s names mourn their passing? Seek justice on their behalf? What justice could be sought? What could he possibly do for these people now? Seek their murderers beyond the Dire Cry borders and risk war upon his country? That would only bring more deaths and he would have brought nothing but strife to his beloved homeland.
There was bile in his throat; he could nearly taste it on his tongue. Yet no, he would not look away. Couldn’t look away. Do not dishonor the dead. Not with your cowardice. Meeting the blank eyed stare of every man, woman and child. There was mutterings from his men; a few knelt by sides of those long gone, too far to save. Many were mutilated; corpses that one would never know were beautiful and vibrant in life. At last his eyes lay on the fallen form of a raider. This man who with others had killed so many, raped and maimed. Tortured and destroyed. But would it not make him as alike or worse then they to extract revenge upon a corpse? No, he could not. Eyes jerking away from the form to calm himself. All are alike in death. The man would be judged in Alasse Cir and found guilty or innocent before the Gods. They were the ones to decide his fate, it was their place. Not his.
Love is of all passions the strongest, for it attacks simultaneously the head, the heart and the senses.
It was in that village that Joscelin rescued a boy from a burning building, both falling unconscious from the smoke. It was from that village that Joscelin learned of love. Night fell and he woke weak to the sounds of laughter, and a small frightened cry, and built within him was an anger he staunched. But the protective instincts of the Blade Dancer within would not go unanswered and he pulled himself to his feet still dizzy, uncaring of his injuries. A man that had had his wrists broken more times than could be counted, broken ribs, broken ankles, all from training ignored the weakness of his body. He found his men playing a cruel game to the human boy he had saved, pushing him between them in a circle with delight that made them look like beasts. To see the right and not to do it is cowardice. “Let him go!” And the night Joscelin shared his tent with the adolescent human boy changed everything for the Blade Dancing King.
The boy spoke stuttering Sere’th, and the King spoke little common but they managed to communicate. And on the way back to the capitol they taught each other the other’s tongue. Joscelin learned the boy’s name was Wil’helm, and how intelligent and learned he was. They shared interests and laughed, Joscelin sang for the boy, and he listened as Wil’helm spoke of how bad the war had become in the north and how humans were uncared for. Joscelin gave an oath to him to change that, and when he arrived in Illander he did as he had sworn he would.
When armies are mobilized and issues are joined, the man who is sorry over the fact will win.
Joscelin was the first King to mobilize a force of humans, Wood Elves, High Elves, Mixed Blood elves and half elves together under one banner. He swore to his men that he would be the one to call the prayers to the Gods on the battlefield, the one to run first into the fray. He took up Wil’helm’s hand and without care for judgment lifted it to the sky declaring that Wil’helm was his consort, and that he too was leaving a loved one behind. That this war was of necessity, and he had no wish for the deaths to come on both sides, and that the Dirge of the dead would be sung for those who passed. He took up arms and he led his country to war, always dressed in silvers so he was the first target the enemy saw. His councilors called him reckless, to do such a thing with no heir but he starred hard at those men who sat behind tables and spoke that he did nothing he would not expect the rest of his men to do for him.
It is better to conquer yourself than to win a thousand battles. Then the victory is yours. It cannot be taken from you, not by angels or by demons, heaven or hell.
The Blade Dancers came two years into the war, and every one of them bowed in respect to their King and gave their oath to fight beside the King to protect the Kingdom. They pushed north from the outlaying villages up toward the border, pushing Dirian forces back with heavy casualties. Men, who have nothing to live for, have nothing to die for. Men who fight for survival are the worst enemy; they have no virtues, no honour, and will fight to their very last breath. The Dirge for the Dead was sang every eve, King’s Guards fell to protect Joscelin, Blade Dancers fell by his side and the war moved on. Joscelin had little time to return home, respites so few and far between. But Wil’helm waited, and Joscelin savoured the time he had with him.
The tongue like a sharp knife... Kills without drawing blood.
Joscelin had called a truce with the south, Royale, as a war on two fronts would have destroyed his country. But Talkran the brother of the current Royalian King was sly, crafty like many Royale’s before him and he managed to sneak his way into Illander’s halls of light. He whispered doubts into Wil’helm’s ears, and laughed at his fears. He coveted Joscelin’s body, but Joscelin unable to risk outright war could not get rid of the leech. Two more years passed and Joscelin became pregnant, and with Wil’helm went through the rituals of Quele Royalty, going to each God’s temple to ask for a blessing on the impending child. It was in Wan’an’iena’s temple that Joscelin found again another lost soul, a daughter, a girl abused and used for her gift. Joscelin freed her from her drug induced prison, and took her as his own though they were of the same age. Wil’helm renamed her, this Naerdiel, to Nilec and Nilec stayed with Wil’helm to protect him from Talkran.
When it is obvious that the goals cannot be reached, don't adjust the goals, adjust the steps.
Joscelin warred until the last month of his pregnancy; he forced his body on through pain and weakness, the loss of his magics to stay beside his men to fight. In the last month he returned for the two weeks before the birthing. He stayed close to Wil’helm, though he was irritable, unable to train, unable to fight, to study. But when the boy was born Wil’helm named him Peter and Joscelin the next morn kissed his beloved goodbye, the stitches barely healed, and he told his daughter to look after his family before once again he rode off to war. Wil’helm shed no tears, gave no wishes that his love would stay by his side. The years began to blend as war became all he knew, colder and colder, heart locked in a box to only be brought out before his children and his mate. The night he would return there would always be waiting for him, white lilies, collected in a vase upon the dresser. The room would be cloaked in the scent of the flowers and Joscelin would feel inner peace.
Eleven years had passed, time dragging on so slow as he prayed for the war to end, the body count to stop rising, and to never have to sing the Dirge again. It was finally over when having beaten back the Dirians to their desert wastelands Joscelin forged peace with the villages closest to the border. Giving the Dirians aid in water and food, his men could not understand but he knew now why the Dirians fought like men dead, with no hope. They were starving; they were thirsting and wasting away. When you are laboring for others let it be with the same zeal as if it were for yourself. They had no wish to die further and neither did he, and at last he returned to Illander to see his son 7 years grown, and take Wil’helm into his arms.
Let go of anger.
Let go of pride.
When you are bound by nothing
You go beyond sorrow.
For the first time in years Wil’helm and Joscelin had the night to themselves, away, in a small forest, Joscelin whispered to his beloved stories of the moon and of the stars. Wil’helm listened with closed eyes, a sense of serenity and calm enveloping them. The war was over, and now they could be together after turbulent times. A matter of eleven years and he had seen Wil’helm for under 2 months worth of days. But it was not to be, the evening was shattered by Talkran’s ambush from the shadows.
The whole secret of existence is to have no fear. Never fear what will become of you, depend on no one. Only the moment you reject all help are you freed.
Joscelin pulled Wil’helm behind him and he fought against the necromancer with skills and training of over one hundred twenty years of combat. But his one weakness was that of his blood, he was of Reinn’s line of blood, light flowing through his veins and darkness his weakness. He fought harder than he had ever before but at last the battle was lost and he was slammed to the ground by bonds of black magic; and Talkran sneering straddled his prize, rubbing against him. Joscelin’s eyes were stone cold up at his enemy, showing nothing, no hate, no fear. Finding that he could not break the King; Talkran enraged slashed Joscelin’s throat and watched him as he lay dying. Joscelin’s eyes finally filled with emotion looked to his mate willing him to Flee! Run! But Talkran unfurled and stood and the last memories before death were always to be Talkran advancing on his beloved, Wil’helm’s eyes glittering with tears, trembling.
Real knowledge is to know the extent of one's ignorance.
Joscelin awoke to the fields of Alasse Cir and so overcome was he with emotion that he knelt and wept onto the endless plains of wildflowers. He felt hands settle onto his shaking shoulders and arms wrap about him in comfort. His birth name was whispered in his ears and he found that he was not alone; Tarja and Adair were with him. He knew not what had happened to Wil’helm but he knew he could not change fates and so he took joy from Paradise. His death had been deemed honorable and for eternity he would walk the fields with the Telemnar, angel kind, and speak to Gods. Tarja who had been a prophet of Sjel cried upon his arm for the childhood he had lost but he had hugged her to him and spoke no words. His life had been what it had been, and he felt no regrets, no shames, he had died in virtue and honor. And so he stayed for years until the day came when a child that did not belong in the Heavens came to him.
Faced with what is right, to leave it undone shows a lack of courage.
Nathanial his grandchild told him of an alliance having been formed with Royale, and he felt anger arise again in his heart for his and Wil’helm’s deaths. He did not know for certain of his beloved’s death but he could guess what befell the poor boy. But he listened as he must to Nathan’s words and the boy beseeched him to come back, to ask Sjel to be reborn as his son so once more Joscelin could take the throne and lead his people. Joscelin turned his back on peace, on the reward that had been received for his death and he agreed to come back to protect the world once more. He would have no rest.
The scars you can't see are the hardest to heal.
A new life, but his mind fought with itself, he was Joscelin, King/General and Blade Dancing student. He was a diplomat, a mage, a ranger and a protector. But he was also of Nathanial’s loins which made him what he had never been before, emotional, knowing of sorrows beyond anything he had known before. The mix created an altruist protector, someone who would do anything for those he loved at cost to himself, to protect and never fail in his duty again. Every child born of two males had a signature upon them of the male ‘mother’, a mental and physical marker of remembrance. The scars on his back from Nathanial’s past were nothing to the scars upon his mind of both lifetimes; he had the memories of his own past as well as Nathanial’s. He could be cold and callous, meticulous and a tactician. Then he could be a lost child, wanting the feeling of being whole, of love and comfort. No one could understand the scars on his mind and heart.
Joscelin was nearly 3 when Kallion was saved from enslavement. The child’s wings had been molding, tears leaking from pain and fear. The boy did not know how to walk very well, his muscles stiff and joints aching from what had happened to him before. Joscelin even at a young age was determined to teach his new brother how to walk, and to talk when he would not. Kallion when he began to trust learned quickly, but there was always sorrow to his eyes that Joscelin understood to well. Two children who had seen too much and the scars were not liable to heal.
When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be.
Nathanial died too young, far too young, and Joscelin could not go to his father for the comfort as a child once again he required. He was alone, no Elder trees to sing to him here in this city that was filled with death like the Academy. He once again trained, forcing his body to do more then it could and rightly should, taking pride that Riq’ua the Master and Eldest Blade Dancer was his personal teacher. Pouring himself into his training once more, he had died honorably last life but he not been a true Blade Dancer. This life he would be, he would be everything he had ever wished to be and more. Nathanial’s memories gripped his sleep and he dreamt of torture and suffering, for the first time in ages Joscelin felt fear. He could not get away from what he dreamt and slowly it changed him, molded him like the Blade Dancing had before.
The only real failure in life is not to be true to the best one knows.
Raunien had been born too soon to Nathanial’s death, the boy had been 3 months when Nathan had passed on and he was given to the militia far too soon as well. Raunien was a bastard and a human one at that; he was useless to the court so he would be reared as a common bastard. Joscelin tried to keep the three of them together as he knew they needed one another, but they were constantly pulled apart. Joscelin tried to hold the family together, and in the nights when cousin Mallie visited it was often that he held both in his arms. His cousin and his brother who cried, but could not speak of what made them do so, would be wrapped in his embrace to try to sleep without nightmares.
It was after Mallie left Camar’a that Kallion joined the Empyrean Order, the Paladin order of Reinn and Joscelin lost contact with him. Raunien was trying his hardest to move up ranks without interference, he was the King’s bastard but he swore to make it on his own, Joscelin was proud of him. Joscelin pulled aside Raunien forcing him to learn how to read and write, not caring that Raunien gave protest that he would never use it. Raunien was a Quele and no Quele was going to be illiterate and stupid!
Work out your own salvation. Do not depend on others.
Joscelin put in for the Border Wardens, wanting experience in combat once again and knowing he owed military service time to the Kingdom. It was not expected that he would be chosen to Command the small contingent of Wardens, all of whom were older than he. The men had looked on him with suspicion at first, disbelieving him for his age alone. The next month showed them that he was able; the undead had been growing in number over the years of Amissio, the Age of Loss after Nathanial’s death. It was twelve men against a forest that moved, lashed out and hated, twisted by the darkness of necromancy that had filled it for years now. There was barely any rest, the elves staying up days to allow their human companions to sleep where they did not need to. The elves meditated when they could but days would pass without pause, and they held no trust of one another.
By the month’s end; the men finally looked past racial superstitions and hatreds, Joscelin working with the men like he had his life before; a trust forming beyond age, station and race.
Respect yourself and others will respect you.
The years passed by, Joscelin became closer to his father, both needing connection, needing comfort. Damion saw Nathanial in his child, blood of his blood, and Joscelin had no wish to be alone. Mutual benefit and both knew they were using each other.
Into his teen years Joscelin understood the sacrifice that was required of him. He would marry Jay and give peace to his country, another war of sorts, just a different kind this time. Joscelin did not care, his world’s peace was what was important to him, he would make the marriage work or he would die trying.
A Blade Dancer thinks always of virtue; the common man thinks of comfort.
Joscelin had come back to protect his Kingdom, give peace to his world in any way he had to, through combat or through personal warfare, through blood and tears. He was going to be King again and this time he would not fail, he would become a true Blade Dancer, even if that meant having to sacrifice his own happiness. What was one life? His life? To the lives of those on his world? Nothing, nothing at all. His life was worth just as much or as little as the man who stood beside him or behind him on the field, as the woman who waited at home for her husband. Every life had its worth, and they were equal in the end. Who was to say that a scholar from a tiny unknown village would not grow up to sire a King? That a boy who had lived through hell, an altruist and fatalist could not rise beyond himself on the road to take back his throne?
When we see persons of worth, we should think of equalling them; when we see persons of a contrary character, we should turn inwards and examine ourselves.
Joscelin lived for his Kingdom, for the future, held his emotions in as befit a Blade Dancer, but that did not mean he did not envy. He had the emotions of Nathanial but he could not show them, he was expected to be a warrior King. Nathanial had been able to show the weakness of his emotions because he had been young, had lived through hell... But Joscelin had to bottle it all inside, looking to a future of being married to the son of a tyrant of the land he had warred against last life. But he told himself he would make the marriage work, that he would not have to sacrifice his happiness once again for the Kingdom.
20 years old he starred into albino pink eyes, his hand held by a hand too cold, a hand of a vampire, Jay starring into his own lavender eyes. There was pain behind those eyes, a sorrow far too much like Kallion's and his own, like Mallie's... But the flicker of emotion disappeared in a heartbeat, the cocky mask taking its place and Joscelin's eyes narrowed. He would find out this time, he would know why that sorrow was stifling the man he was engaged to. He had no love for Jay, the marriage was politics, but that did not mean the marriage had to fail. "I'll find out what you fear." The albino pink eyes narrowed suspiciously, but after a moment the desert prince inclined his head silently seeing that Joscelin was true.
"I would like to try to love you, Jay, son of Nilec."
"...I would like that as well Joscelin, son of Nathanial."
"Then we will try, for our Kingdom's peace, and for ourselves."
"...I would like peace, it is not something I have felt in my life."
"I have not known it well myself, so then, we shall learn of peace together."
Hope never abandons you, you abandon it.
