As the weeks progress, each of the Wandering Men will write pieces that shed more light on the heroes of Skein of Shadows. Whether it’s a biography or a short story, the pieces will provide insight into what drives the characters. Arastin is my (Nathan's) protagonist in Skein of Shadows: Vendetta. An elf assassin, he makes an unlikely hero, but life forced him to make tough decisions. Frozen Dreams will be a short series that depicts key points in his life. The first installment, Tradition, features a younger Arastin and his father, Cador -- both men of iron will with vastly different dreams of the future.
Arastin's world was white and bitterly cold. He bolted upright -- he had the distinct feeling he was falling, but his fingers closed around the cool covers of his bed. A knock on the door made him start again. The sound and the warm spring breeze caused the memories -- no, the dream to melt away. Arastin stretched and ambled to the door.
"Yes?" he asked as he opened the door a crack. Merechyn stood outside, a severe expression on the elf's face.
"Your father sent me to inquire whether you," the butler paused. "'Whether you plan on sleeping the day away, or plan on getting your freeloading ass up and finally leaving his house -- like you promised.'"
The young elf smirked. "Yes, that does sound like him. What time is it?" he asked as he idly scratched his head.
"Half-way into four candles." Arastin frowned. It was only one candle after dawn with eight more in the day, but it was Cador. "Shall I tell him anything, young sir?"
"Where is the old wyrmslayer?"
"The garden."
"Yes, tell him not to go anywhere, and that I'll be down to see him shortly." Merechyn frowned, but the old elf nodded and left. Arastin sighed and closed the door. He slowly dressed in comfortable clothes and slipped into his new boots; he basked in the memories his room held for the last time. When he was finished, he donned his pack and headed for the garden.
Situated on the north side of the small manor, the summer sun already illuminated the well manicured beds. It would be a warm day for a trek to the city. Arastin found his father in his chair beneath his favorite tree. A blanket lay near his feet.
"Don't go anywhere -- very funny, you impertinent whelp!" Cador growled at his son's approach.
"I'll miss you too, father."
The gray haired elf sighed and shook his head. "Look son, we haven't often seen eye to eye."
"Quite the understatement," Arastin quipped.
His father frowned and lowered his head for a few moments. When he looked back up, the depth revealed in his topaz eyes was sobering. "Listen, I'd consider myself a failure as your father if I didn't try to talk you out of going to that city. I have to try again! That's how strongly I feel about the fine inhabitants of Crown!"
Arastin held Cador's gaze and bit back his retort, instead he said: "Father, we've been through this. It's been centuries since our people fled to Crown. Everyone had to adjust and change."
"Years may dilute their memories and spirit, but not mine. Nor does it change the fact that greed and superficiality courses through human veins! Welcome us, but demand a piece of us in return, bah!" His father swung his hand in dismissal and set his chair on edge. Arastin moved to Cador's side -- he steadied the chair so the proud elf didn't topple, and stepped away just as quickly.
"I won't forget our heritage, but I won't wallow in misery, or live in obscurity either. The future lies in Crown! Its people will shape the world, and I'm going to make a name for myself. For us!"
The elder elf's eyes blazed. "Ungrateful!" Arastin reflexively inched back, but the fire dwindled and Cador let out a long sigh. "When have you ever wanted? And I've tried to impress upon you our rich ways and history. How many times have you witnessed the Rites? But I see I'll never convince you." He shook his gray head. "What will you do?"
"Enjoy life! I want to immerse myself in the city -- to find my place."
"My son, Arastin Illuri -- child of the noble houses of Alar Damarr'i -- a vagabond. I can die now, my life is complete!"
Arastin frowned, but he hadn't expected to leave without another bout. "It would only be for a couple years! Perhaps then I'll set up a trade house. Think of all the talented craftsmen we know that keep the old traditions, their products should fetch a heavy sum in Crown. And that would give me a chance to visit one and a while." Arastin stopped. His father wasn't even looking at him any more -- Cador had turned to gaze to the north. "I don't even know why I bother. I'm leaving," he announced.
His father reached down and placed the blanket it on his lap. Arastin heard the muffled "clink" of metal and noted the blanket actually wrapped something long and slender. He guessed the blanket concealed the Illuri family sword -- Drusai. The same sword his forefathers wield in their fight against the Iceskull League. Drusai, the sword ritually handed down the Iluluri line from father to son.
Candor rested his hands on the blanket and lifted his gaze. "Don't get yourself killed. Watch your back, or they'll put a knife in it."
"I'll take that to heart." Arastin eyes darted between his father's face and the blanket, but Cador never moved to reveal what the blanket hid. The moments drug on and the elder elf's gaze started to drift. "I'll come back and visit from time to time."
His father nodded, but Cador was lost in his thoughts. "If you feel you must."
Arastin scowled and stalked away. He left his father to the past as he placed his feet on the path to the future.
