“That doesn’t make sense,” complained Matthew.
“What doesn’t?” I asked.
“Why is he calling himself Tyrion now? His name is Daniel.”
I smiled patiently at my son. We were all tired now, and it was very late. “That was the name the She’Har gave him.”
“I know that, but it isn’t his real name. You’re telling it as if he believes it’s really his name now, but he knows it isn’t. It’s just a name they made up for him,” he argued with visible irritation.
I glanced at Moira and Lynarralla, but neither of them spoke, probably because they were too sleepy to care.
“Your name is the same,” I told him. “Your mother and I just made it up for you.”
“But he already had a name.”
I nodded, “I know what you’re saying, son, but his switch was his own choice. I can’t change his thoughts and deeds. I can only relate them to you. At that point he was going through a lot of internal shifts, and I believe he changed names to distance himself from his past.”
“The past was nicer than his present,” said Moira with a yawn. “Why would he want to be farther from it?”
“People will do strange things to protect their self-image. He had an idea of himself, as a good son, a kind young man, a lover of animals and people. The things he did, as time went on, were completely at odds with how he thought about himself before,” I explained. “When he threatened and tortured the people of Colne, that was when he could no longer reconcile his present with his past. I think he took his new name to protect his memory of himself from who he had actually become. It also gave him the freedom to accept his new self without the restraints that his old life would naturally impose.”
“Restraints?” asked Matthew.
“Tyrion, in his mind, was not beholden to anyone. He didn’t bother so much worrying about good and evil, or kindness and cruelty. He simply did what he felt needed doing, or sometimes simply what he wanted to do,” I said.
“Then why didn’t he do as he wished with Catherine Sayer when she came to say farewell?” asked Lynarralla.
“Well,” I began, “He may have been playing identity games with himself, but he was still Daniel, deep down, and she was an integral part of his memory of his old self. Forcing her would have damaged the one thing that was still precious to him; his first love.”
“This is an awful story, Daddy,” declared Moira.
“You’re right,” I agreed. “And we’re all tired. Let’s sleep on it, and I’ll finish tomorrow after breakfast.”
They didn’t complain too much at that suggestion, and we were all much better the next morning for having slept. As soon as we had eaten however, they gathered around me like hungry predators.
“Are you ready?” asked Moira.
I looked at her in surprise, “You want me to start now? I thought you didn’t like this story.”
“I just want to know how it ends,” she told me.
Grinning, I looked at Lynarralla, “You already know how it ends.”
Penny was waiting for Matthew to finish collecting the dishes from our morning meal, since the chore had fallen to him that morning. She looked askance at me, “You didn’t finish your tale last night?”
“It’s taking longer than I expected,” I said apologetically. She hadn’t stayed to listen when I began the story after dinner and had given up and gone to bed long before we had.
“Hmmm,” she replied, thinking. “I have some things to take care of today, so if you plan on telling stories all day you will have to fend for yourself. I won’t be back to make lunch.”
“I’ll tell Peter to tell the castle kitchen staff to expect us for the noon meal then,” I said. “We should probably put in an appearance for the evening meal as well. We’ve been keeping ourselves rather isolated of late.”
Our home was connected, via a magical portal, to Castle Cameron, where I nominally resided as Earl and landowner. The portal was disguised as the entrance to our apartments within the castle, but when opened by the proper hand, actually led to our hidden mountain home, far from the castle itself.
Generally, we had our evening meals at the castle, as well as spending our days there, but recently we had been living reclusively; making few appearances over the past few months.
Penny nodded and stretched up to give me a warm kiss on the cheek. “Make sure Matthew finishes cleaning up in the kitchen. I need to get ready. I’ll see you at dinner.” With that she left.
I watched her go, thinking to myself how lucky I was. My own fate could have been nearly as dark as Daniel Tennick’s. I caught my daughter staring at me. “What?” I asked defensively.
“I don’t want to know what you were thinking,” she said accusingly.
I laughed, “Nothing like that.” For some reason she seemed to think there was only one thing that ever occurred to me when my mind turned to her mother. Apparently I had set a bad example at some point in the past and she had never gotten over the impression. “Honestly!” I added.
“I see you smirking,” she continued. “Don’t be disgusting.”
I threw my hands up. She had me laughing now, and that only made her more convinced that I was guilty. “Fine, whatever,” I said. “I can’t argue. Your mother is a fine figure of a woman. Perhaps I should go see if we can provide you with another sibling?” When in doubt, go on the offensive.
“Ugh!” exclaimed Moira. “Stop! I’m going to go see if Matthew needs help.” She left me alone with Lynarralla and Conall.
Lynarralla stared at me blankly, and Conall did the same.
I shrugged and watched as my younger son imitated me, lifting his shoulders and turning his hands palms up.
“Will you take your sister outside and play with her this morning?” I asked him. By sister I meant Irene, my younger daughter, who was only seven. Conall was nine.
“I want to hear the story,” he said insistently.
I had sent him and his sister to bed the night before, judging the tale to be far too dark for either of them. “You’ve already missed the first part, and I really don’t want you hearing the rest till you’re older.” I was uncomfortable enough with some of what I had already told his older brother and sister.
It took a bit of convincing, but he finally conceded and took his sister out to play. In the meantime the twins had finished the dishes, and we all settled into the den to finish the story.
“Where did I leave off last night?” I asked.
“He was crying because he missed his momma,” said Matthew bluntly.
I had thought my description was a bit more poetic than that, but his remark was accurate enough. “I suppose that’s fair,” I said. “After a while, he finished unpacking the wires and used them to restring his cittern. He had just finished and retuned it when Lyralliantha returned a few hours later…”
***
She approached gracefully, her limbs in perfect harmony as she moved. It might have been romantic to say that she ‘glided in’, as was sometimes done in stories, but she did no such thing. Her motions were natural, athletic and sure, and they broadcast the fact that the young woman nearby was not only lithe but very healthy.
Since Amarah’s death, Tyrion had ignored his normal urges, but his farewell encounter with Kate that morning had served to remind him that he was still hearty and hale, in the prime of his youth. Lyralliantha’s lissome steps seemed loud in his ears, and though he didn’t look up, he watched her advance unwaveringly with his magesight.
In short, he was horny as hell.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
Ignoring the wolf rising within himself, he answered, “I was just tuning my instrument. What would you like to hear?”
She had already learned the names of all the songs he knew, but she wanted something different. “Play something that fits your memories,” she suggested.
Tyrion frowned, “That’s a tough one.” Looking back over the past week, he had run the gamut of emotions. Happiness, nostalgia, regret, anger, remorse, and self-loathing; he had felt them all in just a few days. He could think of songs that would match one or more, but none that would stay the course for what she wanted. “I’ll play the ‘Merry Widow’ first and improvise when I get to a point where it doesn’t feel appropriate,” he replied.
The ‘Merry Widow’ was a light-hearted song about a woman (a widow), living alone who befriended a songbird. The tune was sweet and poignant, rising in tempo and becoming almost lively, then falling to a low point when the bird failed to return one day.
“If you think it is complementary to your experience then it will be perfect,” said Lyralliantha. She moved to stand behind him as she had done once before, resting her forearms on his shoulders and placing her fingers lightly against his temples.
Tyrion had to consciously relax, allowing his ever present shield to dissipate, so that her magic could reach his mind unimpeded. Her touch was gentle, and he soon felt a subtle presence within his head, as she observed his mental imagery and allowed herself to share his emotions. A pleasant scent caught his nose, and the soft press of her body against his shoulders only reinforced the desire that had been nagging at him before. He disciplined his mind fiercely, but not before she saw, and felt, what had begun to course through his mind.
He felt her pulse quicken in response, but she said nothing. Probably laughing at my animal instincts, he figured. Returning to his task, he began to play without singing, letting his mind drift back to the day he had been reunited with his parents.
The melody flowed smoothly, perfectly matching his emotions, the loneliness and poignancy of his first sight of home. He felt again the first touch of hope when he met his mother and father again. The inescapable belief every child has, no matter what has gone wrong, surely their parents can set things right. Reality soon dismissed this irrational feeling, and he was left with a sense of disappointment and sadness, knowing they could not truly help, and that he would soon be forced to leave them again.
He lived again the moment in the field, playing for the Catherine Sayer of his past memories and then seeing her appear again, as if by magic. All the emotions returned; his joy at meeting her, the relief he had felt knowing she was doing well without him, and the jealousy of discovering she belonged to someone else.
The bird returned in the song as he met his daughter, Brigid, and it flew high until it was bathed in pure sunlight, while she bounded around the hillside with the sheepdog. The happiness of those few hours swelled within his heart only to inevitably darken as a harsh tone interrupted the music. Seeing his father’s bruised and broken body brought both sorrow and anger while his fingers left the familiar melody of the ‘Merry Widow’ and traveled the barren road of vengeance and retribution.
Familiar faces stared at him with fear and loathing, and while some part of him recoiled from their censure, another part rejoiced in the fury and rage that now filled him. It replaced the cold emptiness with a hot fire that, for the time it lasted, gave him purpose and meaning. He desired nothing more than their suffering, and the wildfire consuming his mind nearly overwhelmed his reason. It was the face of a child that brought him back from the brink of chaos.
The notes falling from his fingers followed his heart into a declining theme of dark regret, and it was there that Tyrion Illeniel was born, a new identity rising from the ashes of a broken man. This new figure had Daniel’s face, but he was cloaked in fire and shadow, a man without joy or sorrow, only hard resolve and remorseless choices. He bade farewell to the past and took to the saddle, riding away from friends and family. The giant trees of a dark forest rose before him, but one last spark reached out…
Tyrion stopped, putting the cittern aside and letting his fingers rest.
“Wait,” said Lyralliantha. “What was that, at the end?”
“Nothing.”
“No there was something there,” she insisted. “You were returning, filled with a bleak apathy, and something happened. Why did you stop?”
“I was tired,” he lied. In truth he didn’t want to share his last moment with Kate. It was too private, too precious, and ultimately, too painful.
“Our bargain was that you would share your memories with me,” she stated. “Are you reneging on our deal?”
Tyrion struggled to find a good response, “No—I just…” After a moment he continued, “I’m just tired. I will show you the rest, but not right now. It’s too much.”
A look of sympathy passed over her normally still features, “You experienced more in a few short days, than I have felt in all the years I have been alive. I will wait.”
Well, you’re only nine, what do you expect? He kept the observation to himself, though. “Thank you.”
She had stepped away and stood a few feet apart from him now. “I will take my leave of you, but I have a question before I go.”
“What is it?”
Moving forward she touched the spellwoven slave collar, “If this were gone, if you were free, what would you do?”
His mind went blank. The possibility had been so remote he hadn’t dared to consider it before. “I’m not sure.”
“You could return,” she suggested. “Kill the one who stands in your way, and take the red-haired woman as your mate.”
“Kate?” he looked askance at her. “Her husband is my friend, and besides, if I killed him, she would never forgive me.”
“Is forgiveness a necessity?”
It was at moments like this that he realized how utterly alien the She’Har perspective was. “She wouldn’t love me if I killed the people she loved to get her. It doesn’t work like that.”
“She wouldn’t have to know,” said Lyralliantha. “She cannot perceive aythar. You could kill him subtly and then take his place later. Would you be happy then?”
It was a cold blooded thought, and it might have chilled Tyrion more if it hadn’t crossed his mind already. I’m almost as bad as they are. He gave her the answer he had given himself, “If he were a stranger, I might consider such a thing, but Seth is my friend. I love him as well. I cannot hurt him.”
“Why not?”
It took him a moment to formulate an appropriate reply. “Friendship, and love…” he began, “… are unifying emotions. They bind you to others in such a way that they are no longer ‘other’; they are a part of your ‘self’. If you hurt a friend, you hurt yourself.”
“You believe that if you killed your friend you would also die?” The look on her face made it clear what she thought of such a notion.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Certainly not.”
“Then this friendship of yours is simply a self-delusion,” she countered, “an imaginary construction.”
“Surely you can understand,” said Tyrion. “The She’Har do not kill one another arbitrarily. You work together to provide for everyone.”
“You misunderstand us,” she corrected. “Before using humans, we did kill one another, for entertainment and to select for fitness. We work together for survival. If one must be sacrificed, for the good of the grove, we do so without regret. This female you desire, if we had such strong attractions, such as this ‘love’ you experience, we would kill one another for its sake.”
“Well, humans do sometimes kill one another over a lover,” agreed Tyrion, “but to kill a friend for such a thing is self-defeating. Friendship and love may be self-delusions, as you called them, but they are all the more meaningful because of that. Value, quality, meaning, those things are only found in the impermanent, the temporary, and the intangible; things that don’t exist physically or do not last for long. The solid, the enduring—the permanent things of our world…” he illustrated by knocking on the wood beneath him, “…those things are the least valuable, because they endure. That’s why the beauty of a flower is so cherished, because it only lasts for a short time. That is exactly why love is of such inestimable value. We treasure it because it is intangible and fleeting, much like our lives.”
“You have become a poet, Tyrion,” she noted, “but you still describe a mental illness.”
“Then why do you bargain with me to feel my emotions?” he returned pointedly. “Why do you listen to my music?”
A flicker of something passed over her face, and she moved away, physically withdrawing from the conversation. “I do not know,” she answered. She continued more softly, “Perhaps your madness is contagious.” And then she was gone.