Moving as one, the small class of young ken-shi
brought their bamboo practice swords down, slashing diagonally across their
chests. “Hai!” 

They regrouped, pulled their swords close to their centers of
gravity, then pulled their free arms around in a defensive sweep. “Hai!” 

All took a single step to their right, pivoted
on the balls of their feet, paused for the briefest of moments to allow the
tips of their shinai to stabilize, then thrust them mercilessly into the
bellies of invisible enemies. “Hai!”   

Their motions were timed impeccably, but their
sensei was a difficult man to satisfy. 
“It is not enough merely to go through the motions,” he said, talking
between their shouted ki-yai. “Your motions can be perfect, your timing can be
perfect, your stance can be perfect, but if your intent is not clear to you,
you will still be doing it all wrong!”

“Hai!”

He walked among his students as they diligently
worked their way through the form, examining them closely while they performed
movements which had not significantly changed in a thousand years. “When you
thrust your sword, don’t just stick it out in front of you,” he admonished them
all.

“Hai!”

“Thrust it! You must know in your heart that it
is entering the body of your enemy! It will be bloody…”   With
tiny taps on shoulders and arms, he wordlessly corrected the minute variances
in posture and stance which would reveal potential weakness to an enemy.

“Hai!”

“...it will be repulsive! And you must be ready
for it, for it happens to all Protectors. 
You,” he emphasized, making each of his students feel as if he were the
one being spoken to and causing them to swell with pride, “are going to be a
Protectors!”  On the next turn, he
whirled out of their formation and observed his students, eyes keen for the
smallest variation.  He studied the
movement of his newest pupil, who had been remanded into his care for what his
previous instructor had characterized as a headstrong nature and a lack of
willingness to follow direction. 
“Hold,” he said, his quiet command bringing all of the boys to an
immediate halt where they obediently stood frozen in place, awaiting their next
command.

Silently, the sensei moved closer to the gangly,
dunn-haired boy who had fallen under his scrutiny. He examined him where he
stood, frozen in place. Overall, the boy seemed capable but he was not
responding to his sensei's corrections. 
His presence in the class was a last-ditch attempt to salvage him before
being removed from the program.  Being
ejected from the ranks of acolytes might seem an overreaction to his incorrect
stance, but it would be for his own good. All Protectors must be ready to
fight, and if one could not do so there was little point in continuing to train
them. ”Most of your weight is resting on your rear foot, Johan-san,” the man
observed, his voice clear and strong but not judgmental. “Why is that?”

Although Johan 
had been directly addressed, it had not been requested that he break
formation and the boy maintained his current pose while he listened to his
sensei, his eyes remaining focused on the imaginary enemy standing two meters
in front of him.  He knew, as did all
Kenzine acolytes, that it was far better to be slow with the right answer than
quick with the wrong one. 

He took his time answering, and when he did, his
response was truthful and unvarnished. “I know that my stance is not correct,
Sensei, but it feels better to do it that way," he said, his cheeks
flushing with remembered humiliation at past discipline. “Master Uhlu has tried
to correct me, but I fall back into old ways.”

“Which is why you’re in my class now,” the
teacher added, calmly.  He knelt next to
the acolyte and patted the boy’s thigh. 
“Take your weight off this leg,” he said, then carefully moved the limb
through its range of motion while the boy balanced easily on his other leg.
"Suggesting to Master Uhlu that you know better, in front of a dozen other
students, no less, was perhaps not your finest hour." The other boys
listened carefully, observing as they were able while maintaining the pose as
they’d been taught.  A few sets of eyes
unfocused as they escaped into boredom and daydream, but brighter eyes
sharpened when they realized that something new was happening.  These eyes were naturally curious about the
world.  These eyes were aware and saw
the world as it was happening. These eyes belonged to future Kenzine.

The sensei moved to his student’s other side and
repeated his motions. “Now, bend at the knees?   Again…good.  Stand
up.”  The teacher stood as well, then
rendered his decision.  “The rest of you
will continue doing the forms the way you were taught,” he told the class
before turning back to his new student, “but what you are doing is correct for
you, and I expect you to continue doing it that way from now on.”

“Hai, Sensei,” the boy responded, giving the
expected response with his lips while his eyes delivered his more heartfelt
message of thanks and relief.  Among the
acolytes, his new sensei had the reputation of placing highest emphasis on
performance, and Johan was relieved to see mindless tradition taking a back
seat. But he also knew that he was under scrutiny, and if his kicks weren’t a
centimeter higher than the other boys', if his punches didn’t carry a few dynes
more power, if his test scores weren't that much better, he would be out of his
gi and back in the dorms with the rest of the students.

The sensei put a few steps distance between
himself and his class. “Continue.”

Victus witnessed the scene from the corner of
the classroom, where he’d been standing unnoticed for the last few
minutes.  He’d slipped into the room
during the split second when their backs had all been turned to the door, and
had remained motionless in the shadows while the acolytes had drilled.  The feeling of satisfaction which had
bloomed in his chest while watching their orderly motions had wilted somewhat
upon hearing that a Kenzine Master, 
Uhlu no doubt, had rejected yet another boy for having a physical
imperfection, the same way he’d done to Victus.  The varius had only been saved by this sensei’s hard work and
ability to see past his physical differences.

But Victus had not come all this way to
criticise Master Uhlu’s teaching prowess. 
He shook off the negative feelings and allowed the sensations of the
dojo to wash over him. They brought back memories of a time when he, too, had
been new to Kenzine ways. Clad in his bright white, stiff uniform, he had been
just like these acolytes, absorbing the basics through memorization and blunt
repetition.  Later they would perfect
the mental disciplines which would turn them into ferocious scholars and
statesmen; but for now this was the scope of their lives.

Victus had to wonder how many of them were
thinking what he’d thought so often when running through these exercises.  Will this ever end?  Is this all my life will be?  An endless series of mindless drills and
exercises?   He smiled quietly.  Keep at it, young acolytes! he silently encouraged.  Don’t give up!  It might seem meaningless now, but your lives are about to open
up in ways you could not possibly imagine!

Back when he’d been as blissfully unaware as
these young students, the progress of time had seemed static to him.  Now that he had a student of his own and a
strict schedule to keep, it seemed to be shooting past at a furious rate.

The young ken-shi before him smoothly
transitioned from overhead cuts to side cuts. 
As they methodically ran through the forms they did not notice the
universe’s only varius Kenzine standing in the corner, statue-still.  The instructor, on the other hand, had been
aware of the man since he’d clumsily lumbered into the room.  If he were surprised to see a former student
standing in his classroom, his face did not show it.  In fact, he looked as if he’d been expecting the man to show
up.   “Rob-san!”

“Hai!” acknowledged a young man who wore the
colored stripes of a cohei.  As the most
accomplished acolyte in the class he would be afforded additional privileges,
but not nearly enough of them to compensate for the weight of his added
responsibilities.

“Lead the class in drills,” his sensei
instructed, “Fifty of each element, then begin sparring.”

“Hai!” Instructions received, the acolyte
stepped to the front of the class and seamlessly continued where his sensei had
left off.

Without looking back, the sensei added, “And
assist Aiden-san in recalling why it is not proper to break the form before he
is instructed to do so.”

“Hai, sensei!”, said the cohei, carefully not
expressing his trepidation.  Aiden-san
was churlish and withdrawn at the best of times, and being given correction by
a boy younger than he was not medicine to be swallowed smoothly.

Time for the Rob to sack up, the man thought as
he walked away from his class.  He knew
that his cohei would have his hands full with the older boy. This task, more
than any formal test, would demonstrate the acolyte’s readiness to progress to
the next level.  Without rushing, the
instructor made his way around the rows of students towards the lupine visitor. 

As the teacher approached, Victus could see the
subtle signs of age feathering the sensei’s face.  There were new lines at the corners of his eyes, and perhaps a
small sag under the chin, but not even a hundred years of ageing would keep
Victus from recognizing the man. 
“Master Dagan,” he said, formally putting the palm of one hand against
the fist of the other, then bowing to his elder.

“Victus Entrades,” said Dagan, returning the
gesture with formal gravity. “What takes my student away from his duties?” He
eyed the varius shrewdly. “Is there something you need to discuss with your
mentor?”  Piercing brown eyes looked up
the furred form in front of him.

“No,” said the wolf.

“Then whom have you returned to see?”

Victus clasped his hands together, and with a
slight bow of respect he answered, “As much as I value my mentor’s teachings,
tonight I would appreciate the advice of my father. May we speak? In private?”

Dagen nodded and walked out the door without
worry that his class would misbehave in his absence.  He led his son on a roundabout trip through the training center,
purposefully not taking the most direct route out of the building.  The microscopic twitches of his son’s ears
suggested that Victus was enjoying his trip down memory lane, so he prolonged the
time spent there as much as was feasible.

Eventually they crossed into the monastery’s
outer corridors.  Although it remained
peaceful and unhurried, the men and women around them were in constant motion
as they cleaned corridors or moved with silent grace towards their next
duty.  Through this atmosphere of
familiar comfort, the two men made their way to the dormitories and to the
apartment they had shared for many years.

“Allow me to freshen up a bit,” Dagan said,
making his way into the apartment’s small bathroom. His voice was muffled as he
stripped off his sweaty gi and ran water to wash his face.  “Please, make us some tea while I change.”

The compact rooms seemed even smaller than
Victus remembered them, a feeling he had each time he returned home from an
assignment.  But even if the rooms felt
different, everything in them was familiar. Still, something was missing…  “Where is Caroline?”

“She’s at the hospital,” Dagen called through
the bathroom’s open door, “one of the boys from the orphanage managed to damage
himself.”

“Oh,” Victus said, his ears losing a bit of
their starch. He pulled off the kettle’s lid and filled it with water from the
sink. “That is unfortunate. I had hoped to see her as well.” The kettle, the
tea, the service had all been where Victus had expected to find them.  Apparently, Sister Caroline had not felt
compelled to put her stamp of occupancy on the place by rearranging the
cupboards when she moved in.

He placed the kettle on its base and twisted the
thermostat’s knob to the proper temperature to brew Oolong tea.  There was no need to remember the setting,
because in Victus’ absence Dagen had ringed the dial with a half-dozen sticky
labels to remind himself of the proper temperature for each of his favorite
drinks.  In his father’s handwriting
Victus saw,’Green, herbal, black,’ and, so typically for Dagen, ‘RAMEN!!’
Victus shook his head with affectionate disgust.  With a kitchen full of the best food in the world only steps
away, his father still indulged his love for the repulsive, freeze-dried soup
noodles.

By the time Victus was setting the tea cups on
the low table next to the window, Dagan emerged from the bedroom. The simple,
orange robes of a Kenzine Master hung carelessly over his frame.  “Either they gave you someone else’s robes
or you’re losing weight,” the lupine observed.

Dagen smiled halfheartedly.  “Caroline has me on a diet, of sorts.”

“She hid your candy?”

Dagen looked insulted.  “What candy?”

“The candy bars you hide in your sock drawer,”
Victus said.  “And the ones inside the
ventilation duct.  And pushed behind the
pencil drawer of your desk.”

“I’m certain those could have been left behind
by the previous tenant.” Dagen glared at him.  
“And what were you doing rooting around in my sock drawer?”  

Victus tapped the side of his nose and gave his
father a look suggesting that the man should know better.

“Oh,” Dagen said, meekly, then turned grumpy
again. “She threw it all away.”

Victus worked hard to restrain his smile.  “Was that after you suggested that it was
left behind by the previous tenant?”

Dagen’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out
of water.  “I suppose,” he blustered,
before settling down.  “I’m not going to
win this one, am I?”

When Victus looked up, his eyes were twinkling
with good humor.  “No.” Ignoring the tea
for a moment, he moved behind his father and hugged the man’s neck. Their
considerable height difference put Victus’ head far over Dagen’s, and for a
second he rested his chin on the top of his father’s head. “I’ve missed you.”

Victus released the man and went back to
preparing their tea.  It was more than a
task to him, it was a service of love, a chance to give something back to the
man who had given so much to him.  When
it was complete, he carried the tea set to the table and sat across from Dagen.
They bowed to each other with formal dignity, and Victus served.

“I’ve missed you too, son.” Dagan took advantage
of Victus’s activity to study the younger man. 
Contracts with clients were always written to allow a Protector a few
days of personal relief, if the situation allowed. While the presence of an
assigned Protector back at the abbey was not unprecedented, his son had never
before left one of his assignments for even the shortest length of time. Dagen
would be foolish to assume he had done so now for any but the most strenuous of
reasons.

Looking his son over, Dagan could see his ears
twitch, hear him breathe shallowly, and feel the tension in the younger man’s
body. Besides which, Dagen thought, as he noticed the drop of amber liquid
resting on his tea plate, his performance of the tea ceremony is
uncharacteristically sloppy.

Dagen blew over the surface of his tea to cool
it.  “So here we are,” he said, starting
the ball rolling. “Whatever brought you halfway across the planet must be quite
important.”

“It was only twelve hundred kilometers,” Victus
corrected him, then sighed at the reproving look his father gave him. “I am
troubled,” he admitted, “in a way which I did not feel comfortable expressing
over a comm call.”  At Dagen’s understanding
nod, Victus proceeded to relate his personal account of what had happened over
the past few months.  He had already
related most of it in his reports and personal letters, but his personal
emphasis gave the story an emotional quality which letters on a page or dots on
a screen could never reveal.

Dagen listened carefully to everything his son
had told him, resisting the urge to let fly his advice before Victus had
completed his story. An oft-repeated phrase in a Kenzine classroom was, ‘Never
form a conclusion when a good hypothesis would do.’  Another which he followed now was, ‘Closed lips open the mind.’

When Victus concluded by telling of the hidden
cameras and the incident with Lucas which followed, Dagen steepled his fingers
and considered what he’d just heard. 
Victus made use of the quiet time by running through a relaxation
exercise, slowing his pulse and respiration until they lost their excited edge.

Dagen’s silence stretched into several
minutes.  He leaned back on his cushion
and imagined all the ways that his hypothesis might be proven wrong, but in the
end he admitted defeat.  Now more than
ever, he believed that his initial assumption was correct. “You’re in love,” he
said, then blew on his tea to cool it while his son watched him in shocked
silence.

“I apologize, father,” Victus said,
finally.  “I’m afraid I have not
expressed the situation correctly.” He settled himself and prepared to start
over again from the beginning. “I’m having difficulty training an employee...”

Gently but forcefully, Dagen interrupted.
“...and you will continue to have difficulty bringing this man under your
control until you resolve the emotional issues underlying the source of the
problem.”

“I don’t have time for emotional issues,” Victus
nearly snapped before bringing himself back under control.  “I have work to do.”

“I think that might be the issue we’re dealing
with,” Dagen said, looking mildly upset. “You’ve always placed far more
emphasis on your work than on establishing relations with other people.” He
sighed. “Even when you were young, your eyes were always on your studies rather
than on the fairer sex.”

“My eyes are not on the fairer sex,” Victus
said.  “I’m not even sure what that’s
supposed to mean.”  He paused and
regrouped.  “I want to train the man,
not bed him.”

"Did I say he was the one you were in love
with?" Dagen asked, calmly.

Realizing he'd made an unconscious admission of
sorts,  Victus said nothing.

“Why limit yourself?” Dagen asked, honestly
curious.

“I can hardly do both,” Victus replied, looking
lost.  “I would never let my personal
feelings override my duty.”

Dagen looked at his finest pupil, wondering
whether the lupine had missed the obvious or was willfully refusing to see it.
“They’re not the same thing,” he said, “Not the same thing at all.  They needn’t intersect, and there need be no
harm if they do.”  He looked at his son
with such empathy that Victus was momentarily taken off guard. 

Dagen took advantage of the momentary silence to
change the direction of their conversation. “I’ve long wondered what happened
to you at the Blankenship estate.You were a different man when you came back from
that assignment.'

Victus quirked his ears at the comment,
signalling his confusion.  Almost
immediately after, they folded back with shame when he interpreted Dagen's
meaning. "I allowed Todd Blankenship to be injured," he explained.
"That would never have happened if I had been doing my job
correctly." His scowl darkened. "I needed to be a different man,
after that."

Dagen's expression softened in sympathy.
"Not even the best Kenzine can see the unseeable," he said, his gaze
turning wistful. "My parents abilities were well-regarded, and neither of
them saw the danger approaching. Not only did they die, but most of the
colonists they were there to save died as well." His eyes found those of
his son's and he shrugged helplessly. "They died because they were mortal.
There was no failure of ability."

“It certainly felt like failure when I was
removed from active duty for eighteen months,” Victus growled.

“Dagen's eyebrows shot up. "No!” he said,
surprised that Victus would have entertained such a notion.  “In fact, you showed such...perspicacity… is
that the right word?”  He frowned in
annoyance at himself. “Atypical insight into that which could not have been
known...whatever...when you healed that boy like you did, Abbot Wesley felt
that some medical training might help you understand how you did what you did,
and that you might eventually be able to teach the techniques to others.”

Now it was Victus’ turn to look annoyed, but it
wasn’t at himself.  “Why couldn’t he
have just told me that up front, instead of letting me think that it was a
punishment?”

Dagen shrugged. 
“I’m sorry, you’ll have to ask him that question.  But if you do, his answer probably won’t be
helpful. You know how cryptic he can be.” 
He looked at his son sharply, as something the other man said had
finally penetrated. “Punished?  Why on
earth would anyone want to discipline you after that assignment?”

“I failed,” Victus said, as if it were obvious.
“My assignment was to keep the Blankenships safe, and by the time I left, the
boy had almost been killed and his father’s career was fatally damaged.  After the media’s reaction to that incident,
I don’t think he’ll ever be elected to anything higher than dog catcher.”

“Good,” Dagen said, then immediately apologized.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t say that.  The
best possible outcome would have been for Edgar Blankenship to recognize his
failings and work past them.  But
realistically he wasn’t going to do that, and he had pet legislation that he
was keen on putting into place that would have done a great deal of harm to a
great number of people, so it’s a good thing for all parties involved that he
was put out of the running.” He pointed at Victus with the hand holding his
tea. “Your discovering a new talent was a huge side benefit.”

He downed a slug of his tea and continued
talking before Victus had a chance to interrupt his thought.  “You’ve always been so hard on yourself,” he
said, frowning. “You’ve accomplished so much, helped so many, that you have
every right to consider your progress to be satisfactory.  Yet, you do not.  Why is that?”  He stared
into his son’s eyes, challenging his reply.

Victus pondered the question for a moment, not
feeling prepared to answer it.  He
suddenly realized that he didn’t have to. “Your points are valid,” he said, “but
they are not what I am here to discuss. 
Would you mind if we tabled them and got back to the issue at hand?”

“Your being in love?”

“I’m not in love.”

Dagen’s shoulders drooped the tiniest amount.
“We’re back to that, huh?”  He regretted
his words when Victus lifted his cup to his mouth in an unconscious protective
gesture, ears drooping and tail going still. 
Dagen’s quick words had just pushed something unpalatable into his mind,
and he was withdrawing.  “But perhaps
you’re right,” he said, making a tactical retreat.  “Perhaps language is interfering with our communication.”

Dagen corrected his posture and thought about
what Victus had learned during his sabbatical. 
The severity of Todd Blankenship’s injury had forced Victus to overcome
whatever mental barriers were standing in the way of his making that
all-important mental connection, and had permitted healing in a way unknown to
his kenzine brethren. Abbot Wesley had been most interested in the fact that
Victus had formed such a strong healing bond with the young man, and as soon as
he was freed from the Blankenship contract, had delivered him to the greatest
minds in the Kenzine empire in the hopes of strengthening that ability.

It had not taken those learned men long to
realize that Victus’ native abilities far outstripped their own, and his
teachers became his willing students. Victus’s education shifted focus,
concentrating on human anatomy and basic medicine.  By the time he left their company, the combination of hard
science and mental training had sharpened his abilities considerably.

“Words may not be the best way to convey the
issue.  Perhaps we could share a space,
for a while?”  Dagen considered himself
a fortunate beneficiary of Victus’s new skills, for they allowed him to become
closer to his son than ever before. 
Although the parental bond which Victus had shared with his biological
parents far eclipsed what he could achieve with his adopted father, it still
allowed a degree of connection that would otherwise have been impossible.

Victus was grateful that Dagen trusted him
enough to suggest such a thing. Some of his other teachers had not, viewing his
emerging abilities with suspicion and distrust.  He moved within arm’s reach of his father and offered his hand,
palm up, in invitation. 

Dagen put his hands in his son’s and closed his
eyes, clearing his mind in invitation. 
Slowly, almost imperceptibliy, he drifted into Victus’ consciousness.
“Tell me about your situation,” he asked aloud, his voice in the calm monotone
he used with his first-year meditation students. “What brings you such
confusion?”

His own eyes shut, Victus opened himself to the
emotions behind the experiences he’d just related to his father.  The assignment with the Blankenships, being
pulled from active duty, and now his time with the Negin. All these things fed
into his lack of confidence that he was doing the right things at the House of
Mal, and that his failures were now dragging a fellow varius down with
him.  Admitting his doubts to another
man like this felt like religious confession.

Dagen offered neither condemnation or
absolution. “Tell me about Lucas MacKenzie,” he asked, saying the man’s name in
anattempt to focus the whirlwind of distant feelings and images that were
coming across the tenuous link.  It was
like viewing a hurricane at twilight, through a thick wall of glass. “Describe
him, physically.”

“He’s not as tall as me,” Victus said, a dim
image of Lucas forming in his mind as he spoke aloud.  The whirling images stabilized as he focused his own mind. “A
hundred and sixty kilograms, more or less. Cross-bred, heavy on the shepherd
and rottweiler types, with others mixed into the genome here and there.” As he
described his student, the picture in his mind sharpened and cleared.  Details firmed up as he told Dagen of his
ears, eyes and facial structure.

Dagen had worked with many hundreds of varii in
his life, but had seen few to equal the man his son was describing.  Although his type was unconventional, and
thus would probably not be highly sought after in varius circles, Dagen still
thought that he was a powerfully handsome man. 
The way his ears flopped back and forth made him winsome, at the very
least. “What do you think about his appearance?” he asked.

Victus paused in confusion, his mental imagery
softening momentarily. “His appearance is irrelevant,” he said, finally. “It is
not something I notice.”

“Fair enough,” Dagen said, changing the subject
before his son could become defensive. 
One thing he’d learned about the bond they were sharing was that sudden
shifts of emotion tended to break it down. 
“What do you think of him as a person?”

The image that Victus was holding in his mind
suddenly looked sad, as if he had suddenly felt the weight of his life’s burden
pressing him down.  “He has had a
difficult life,” Victus said, “and that has affected him in many ways. But he
perseveres in spite of his handicaps, and maintains a positive outlook on
life.  His current imprisonment was
caused by an ethical dilemma, not moral imperfection.  He did the right thing in the wrong way at the wrong time and
place, and now endures a punishment which is neither necessary nor effective.”

“That is a good description,” Dagen said,
encouragingly. “What do you think of him?” he repeated.

The image of Lucas immediately winked out of
Victus’ mind, replaced by the black void of inattention.  Victus moved slightly as a signal to his
father, and Dagen pulled away from his son as the varius returned to his
formal, ramrod posture.  “I think he is
a good man,” Victus said, simply.  “I
like him and I enjoy his company.”

Dagen refilled their tea cups and sipped from
his.  “You know what the issue is,
Victus.  You’re simply not willing to
admit it.”

The look the varius gave to his mentor was
stony, but he remained silent.

Dagen smiled easily.  “Embracing a life of duty and service does not exempt one from
feeling basic human emotions.” He shook his head. “Nothing you’ve shown me
suggests a different option,” he said. “You’re in love, and you should explore
this side of yourself.”

“No,” Victus immediately said, then stopped
himself.  He knew what Abbot Wesley
would have said, had he been there. 
Such a quick reply!  It felt
incriminating. 

Victus’ single word hung suspended between them,
floating through the air like the tea leaves in the hot water sitting in the
pot. As the water drew forth the character of the shriveled leaves, so too did
the silence reveal the magnitude of his admission. His handpaw warmed under
Dagen’s touch.

“It’s okay,” Dagen said, giving his son’s
handpaw an encouraging squeeze. “This is a good thing, my boy!” He stood in a
single, graceful move. “Wait here.” The smile on his face as he made his way to
his bedroom confused Victus.  He came
out a moment later holding a felt bag, passed through the kitchen to retrieve a
pair of crystal tumblers reserved for special occasions, and returned to the
table.

He placed the glasses on the table between them,
pulled an ancient-looking bottle from the bag and poured a small amount of
amber liquid into each glass.  The intense
aroma of alcohol and charred peat moss alerted Victus to the contents.  “Scotch?” He frowned at Dagan. “Why?”

“We’re celebrating, my boy,” he answered
jovially, admiring the rich smell, and the way the liquid caught the light.

“My actions may be causing me to fail and we are
celebrating?”

“We’ll get to that, I promise,” Dagan
soothed.  “Right now I’m relieved. I was
beginning to think we’d never be having this conversation!” He lifted his glass
in a toast to his confused son.  “It was
a long time in coming, but here’s to your first crush.”  That said, Dagan downed the shot.

Victus stared at the glass in his hand with
dubious suspicion.  “This a good thing?”

“It’s a very good thing,” Dagen enthused, his
face flushed with good cheer. “It’s the bee’s knees! The dog’s pajamas!  The cat’s meow!”

“It’s the cat’s pajamas, I think,” Victus
corrected, uncertainly.

“Of course it is,” Dagen conceded.  “You’d meow too, if someone were forcing you
into pajamas.  But that’s not the
point!  You’re in love, and I couldn’t
be happier about it.”

Victus set his glass on the table with an
audible thunk. “I am not in love,” he announced, resolutely.

“Oh yes, you are!” Dagen positively beamed.  He picked up Victus’ glass and put it back
in his hands.

As soon as the glass was back in Victus’ hands
he returned it to the counter, this time out of his father’s reach.  He knew better than to argue with Dagen, but
he wasn’t above questioning him. “I think I would know if I were in love with
the man.  What makes you so sure you’re
right?”

Dagen smiled, patiently.  “You’re not nearly as good at hiding your
emotions from me as you are at hiding them from yourself.”  He sipped at his scotch and practically
smirked at his son. “The way you describe the man with your words bears little
resemblance to what you see with your eyes, you know.” He raised an eyebrow
consideringly.  “If my own gaze weren’t
turned by the fairer sex, I do believe I might pursue him!”

Victus looked upset, but Dagen waved away his
objections.  “I must admit, I’m very
curious what the man really looks like. 
With such a vast disparity between what you say and what you think, he
could look like Quasimodo for all I know.”

“Would it matter?” Victus asked, acerbically.

Dagen pursed his lips.  “When was the last time looks meant anything to me?” he asked,
then shrugged. “You can’t  blame me for
being curious, can you?”

“I suppose not.”  Victus crossed his arms over his chest in an unconscious defensive
move.  Standing like that, he reminded
Dagen very much of the young boy who’d first stepped into the monastery a
quarter-century earlier.  After a
moment, his harsh frown softened. “He doesn’t look anything like Quasimodo,” he
muttered.

“No, he does not!” Dagen said, cheerily.  “He’s quite the looker.  For some reason I wouldn’t have expected him
to be so muscular.”  His face grew serious.
“Does he share your affection?”

Victus looked surprised, his ears laying back of
their own accord.  That wasn’t something
he was prepared to answer, because he hadn’t even permitted himself to ask the
question. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his tail twitching nervously.  “He has relations with women, so I suppose
not.”

Dagen shook his head slowly back and forth.  “That doesn’t mean anything, my boy.  Most young male varii will rut with a stump
if they think they can get away with it.”

“Father!” Victus frowned.  He didn’t think he would ever grow
accustomed to hearing Dagen  using
vulgarity.

“What?” Dagen asked, spreading his hands in
injured confusion.  “It’s true! In any
case, sexuality isn’t what you do, it’s what you prefer.  Have you no idea what he prefers?”

“I suppose not,” Victus admitted, after a
moment’s thought. “We haven’t really discussed anything that personal.”

“There are always clues,” Dagen said, moving
closer and extending a hand. “I could take a peek and see if you’ve missed
anything?”

“No!” Victus almost yelped.  He hurriedly backed away from his father’s
outstretched hand. “That’s quite alright! 
We’ll…” he sighed. “I’ll...figure it out.”   He located his glass, downed half the contents and gasped.  Smooth as it was, the scotch still burned
going down.  He discreetly abandoned the
liquor and returned to his tea.  Without
comment, Dagen put the glass in the sink to be washed, but not before emptying
the contents into his own tumbler.

***

All too soon, their visit was over and Victus
was taking his leave.   “You can’t stay
the night?” Dagen asked, although he already knew the answer.

“I’m sorry, father,” Victus replied, with
authentic regret in his voice.  “I have
already been gone longer than I should have.”

“A single day?” Dagen asked.

“Two,” Victus corrected.  “I rode the scooter.”

Dagen’s face fell.  “That thing’s going to be the death of one of us.  You from an accident, or me from worry.  You could have stayed longer if you’d taken
a shuttle,” he noted.

Victus smiled at his father’s concerned
henpecking.  “It’s therapy, of a
sort.   The world seems very simple when
I’m riding it.  I have one task to
concentrate on, and that’s it.  It’s
very relaxing.”

Dagen 
handed Victus a foil-wrapped Alco-Gone tablet, which the varius
obediently chewed even though his body had long since processed what little
alcohol he’d consumed that afternoon.

“Will Rob-san be upset that his sensei has been
drinking?” queried Victus as the two men began their walk back through the
grounds.

“Rob-san is a capable assistant, but he needs to
become proactive rather than reactive.” Dagan said, as though talking with a
colleague.  “If he were present for our
conversation and had not thought to bring the scotch on his own I’d have talked
with him later.”

Victus chuckled, remembering the time he’d spent
as a teacher’s second-man. It was a time when everything you did, no matter how
right it was, was still wrong.  “And if
he did bring it you’d have chastised him for anticipating your actions.” He
shook his head. “I imagine you’ve been as hard with him as with all your other
coheis.”

“Discipline maintained is discipline learned,”
was all Dagan said as a smirk came to his lips.

They rounded the corner to the parking area, and
Victus pushed a sequence on his comm that unlocked his bike’s storage
compartments.  Dagan couldn’t keep from
wincing at the chirping noise.  It
signaled the end of their visit, and it meant that Victus was about to take his
life into his own hands again. He wished that Victus had never gotten that
damned thing…

As Victus pulled his riding gear free and began
putting it on, Dagan picked up the helmet and turned it over in his hands,
examining the rock-pitted surface. 
“Where did these come from?”

Vic paused to see what his father was looking
at, then smiled. “The closer you are to the ground, the more gravel you have
flying in your face. That’s why,” he added, “you wear a helmet.”

“And here I thought it was for something stupid,
like giving me something pretty to bury after you fall thousands of feet to
your death.”

“I appreciate your concern,” Victus said
honestly.  “I know you’ve never liked my
having the scooter, but you’ve never tried to stop me from riding it.”

“No,” Dagan admitted. “Every time I see you roar
off on this thing it makes another dozen hairs fall out of my head. But,” he
said, after a moment’s pause, “it gives you something I can’t.  It’s a way for you to find out who you
really are inside without anyone else interfering.  It’s your thing.  And you
love it.”

“I’m very careful, father,” Victus deflected,
his ears autonomously laying back in deference as he adjusted the straps on his
vest.

“I know,” Dagan said matter-of-factly, “I know.
But that still doesn’t mean I’m not afraid for you up there.” Spontaneously, he
gave Victus a hug. “Live your life, my son. 
I will always be here for you.”

“I know,” replied Victus, just as quietly, but
no less seriously.

Releasing his grip on his son, Dagan
straightened and smoothed his robes, the calm bearing of a Kenzine master
rolling over him like an evening tide.  “You
must return to your duties, Victus Entrades,” he said, bowing, pressing the
palm of one hand against the fist of the other.  “May you preserve life.”

Victus returned the gesture with grave
solemnity, “May your life be productive and full.” 

Ceremony completed, the older man turned and
walked away without a backward glance, leaving the lupine to pilot himself out
of the compound.  Although this was the
Kenzine way, to overlook sadness in favor of concentrating on a loved one’s
eventual return, Dagen simply couldn’t stand to watch his son flying away from
him again.