Dojat
Mister Mayor
Perfectus: The Decurio's Son
(2732)
(2732)
Author's Notes
The ice sheared beneath the blades attached to his boots. The blood that no doubt soaked the feathers along his ankles and threatened to leak out of said boots onto the frozen lake was of little consequence; this would be as all he did - perfect. If his damned body could only cooperate with his mind, this too would come naturally. Even still, the enlil’s body simply ached. Bruises, scrapes, and winter’s hostile bite saw fit to slow his already glacial progress. When next he collapsed onto the thick layer of frozen water, the same voice he’d heard for some hours called out.
“Again!”
His black feathers parted way for ivory skin and a sharp jawline, and his piercing amethyst eyes held a quiet intensity upon the pristine landscape. The expression on his face was equally determined as that passionate silence; so Perfectus Polus stood. He ignored the way his knees wobbled and the feel of open wounds pressed tight against hard leather. He assumed the stance for the beginning steps of his routine, and did as commanded. His trainer hummed the melody they’d chosen - a concert of harps, pianos, and strings that were to be played by the live orchestra. The humming did little to assist - Perfectus had burned the song into his mind already, could even recognize it by what stance he took during his routine. As the song reached its crescendo, signifying the final movements of his performance, his spins and wide sweeps across the ice evened out into him resuming the same stance he had before he fell last time.
Arms held evenly out at his side, only the most perceptive could spot the shaking of his fingertips - though from frost or fright, the knowledge was only his. So he breathed in through his nose, and folded his body in, ready to go into the quintuple axel.
There was no thought, no plan beyond the calm mind he forced upon himself. He would get it right because he had to get it right. As he entered the takeoff, he pulled his arms in close to decrease wind traction, but extended his elbows slightly, the glide of his enlil heritage allowing for such an ambitious move thanks to how they bound his wings at the breast. So when he made it through four rotations and his skates made their clunky sideways contact with the ice, he rode out the pain from twisting his ankle and collapsed onto the hard cold surface. After a moment to mourn his own aches, he sat up and heaved a laboured breath.
His coach approached. She was a stern enlil, but decorated as a figure skater. With wrinkled features and a voice like gravel, Syvil Glacies tsked, then offered him a taloned hand. “That shall be enough for one day, Perfectus.” She helped him up, then continued as she looked him up and down, loose ice and frosted earth gathered over his exhausted form. “The competition is a week away, there is still some time yet. To continue now would lead to greater injury than Viribus would be able to manage.”
Perfectus nodded, and cast one cursory glance to the lake. As soon as he spared that look, the late morning sun peeked through the overcast sky and past the tips of the dark sky-scraping pines that surrounded the lake in its entirety, turning his training ground into a glittering vista worthy of a thousand paintings. Even though this had been mere practice, he couldn’t shake the failure from his mind. The carved ice grinned back at him, smug in its victory. He spared it but a cerebral retort.
Upon my return, you shall know the truth of my name.
As suddenly as the sun appeared to congratulate the frozen water on its victory, it vanished, as if in fear of the boy’s confidence. He turned back to see Coach Glacies already nearing the edge of the lake. He hurried to catch up, refusing to wince as his pained body hampered his arrogant nature. When they reached the shoreline they’d first stepped upon, he sat down upon a rocky outcropping and untied his skates, entirely uneager to see what blistering bloody mess had made its home inside. The relief of removing the apparel was immediate, even as the cold flexed upon his open wounds. He grabbed his sandals from where they had been left, and fastened them upon his taloned extremities, then made to stand. Luckily, the darkness of his feathers would hide any blood that threatened to appear, and the ruddy brown of the trees that comprised much of the forest would barely change in hue if a single sanguine drop reached them.
Coach Glacies had always been indelicate with him, to everyone’s chagrin but his own. He appreciated that she’d challenge him, that she’d push him. So much of his life was destined to be spent doing the same things over and over, to perpetuate the culture of his people. To be trapped in the cycle his lineage had created some centuries ago. It was strange - almost as though every scathing, disappointed glance spurred him on further, encouraged him in a way that no other had. This competition specifically, she’d given him the hardest routine he’d ever attempted. It made the journeys back into the city that much more painful.
As the pair continued back through the cleared wooded path and a soft breeze rustled the far-above treetops, shaking flakes of snow down upon the thicket, Perfectus had to consider his concerns. If the people of Astrum saw him struggle, would it truly be so bad?
No, he chided himself, if I present weakness then Astrum, too, appears in kind. For Mother’s sake, and the sake of the city, of our people, I shall bear this burden. Even though it hurts.
After a good hour of walking despite the pained blisters that had already formed upon his soles, Astrum’s boundaries came into sight. The towering trees of the path were dwarfed still by the heights to which Astrum’s peak reached. The tallest, thickest tree of which contained Perfectus’s own home. Being the son of Astrum’s Decurio was a privilege, or so it was said. He found that his birthright came with its own set of problems.
Walking through the city was an arduous task, but not one unfamiliar in his current state. His pace was slowed to compensate for the limp he masked, but nobody he encountered seemed to notice that aught was amiss. The skates dangled in one of his claws, and each enlil he passed regarded him with respect, many offering greetings that he returned with an inconsequential nod of his head, though he heard the occasional murmurs from those who thought he couldn’t hear.
“He looks miserable. Why is the Decurio forcing her son to take part in that foreign sport?”
Every fiber of his being strived not to react to the irony of the statement. Perfectus instead continued, finally gazing upon his home - the largest tree in Astrum. He stepped forward and past the guards stationed outside, moving quietly through the expansive structure that contained dozens of rooms. When he finally found his destination - his room - he stowed away within, tossing aside his bloody skates and flopping onto his bed. In these solitary moments, where even he could barely hear his thoughts, did he allow doubt to whisper its soothing melancholy.
Ever since he was a child, when he first learned that his responsibility was to his people first and himself second, he felt ensnared; smothered in the tar of his mother’s expectations and his own need for approval. The skating was a fun distraction from every mandated activity he endured, save the fencing, which he took a natural affinity to. Learning to play the piano, learning the ancient tongue of his people, etiquette lessons, history lessons, briefings on the actions of the other cities and their denizens. A not small part of Perfectus simply wanted to live his own life. He’d continue to skate, likely continue to master his already expert proficiency with the rapier, but perhaps discover more about himself. More than this life would ever allow.
But it was his destiny - his duty - to lead his people. We are all one flock, and at the front of every flock is a leader.
The words were ones he’d told himself for as long as he could remember, and while they may have held fast for their traditions, he couldn’t shake the way they rang hollow as he aged. He presumed it was likely natural, to realize that youthful idealism was naivety. But this was the only life he’d ever known, and he couldn’t fly far with the burden of his people upon his wings. To shirk that weight would be forsaking all he’d known, all he’d been given. All he had to do.
But that was enough traitorous wondering for one day. He changed to cleaner clothes, something more typical of his style - a fitted suit jacket that cut away at the sides to allow for free movement of his wings, and slacks to match. Both the same shade as his feathers with golden trimming. Sufficiently presentable, he looked for his aide. It took some navigation of the large residence, but he eventually found Viribus in the kitchens.
The older enlil man turned and gave an earnest grin. “Master Polus, good morning. How was your practice?”
Perfectus simply rested his head on the kitchen island. “Grueling.”
Viribus was the only one he trusted to keep his secrets, to see Perfectus so utterly pitiful. He practically raised him, what with his mother always being away on political business. The young enlil never met his father, as he had passed away before Perfectus was born. The sunset-orange aide turned back, and placed a hot meal down in front of the skater’s form. “Miss Glacies can be quite...intense, but you’ve never lost a competition. Clearly the grueling training pays off. You’ve got your fencing class in twenty minutes, and your mushu’vu game in two hours, then it shall be time for lunch, followed by your studies afterwards. You should rest up now while you can.” The older man gave a short chuckle.
The black-downed enlil only groaned, then lifted his head. He would laugh along or retort on any other day, but the exhaustion he felt from that morning was almost more overpowering than any other he’d ever felt. Shrugging off the fatigue, Perfectus dug into the food - cooked green beans and scallions with a small side of cooked venison. Beyond being his personal assistant and tutor, Viribus was a skilled culinarian. When he was done devouring the meal, he spoke, “I’ve some blisters on my feet from the skates, would you…?”
Viribus smiled, also a skilled caster of the school of Castus, his small round spectacles pushed up into his eyes. “Ah, of course.” He knelt down and hovered his hand over the cuts and scrapes and blisters, then uttered a few words. Immediately, the pain began to subside until it was nearly gone. Nearly.
“Thank you.” Perfectus turned and stretched. “Did we get the letter today?”
“I’m afraid not.” Viribus went back to cleaning the kitchen and allowed Perfectus to stew on his thoughts.
His mother had said she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to make it to the figure skating competition in Zephii, but that she’d write with her final answer on the matter. She’d been gone a couple weeks, and while there was still some short time before competition for a message to arrive, it was not uncommon for her to leave for months at a time. It was her duty, and he attempted to restrain the resentment that wanted to sprout - she was gone so that he, so that Astrum could thrive. As her father did, and his father, and his mother, and so on. Since the cataclysm, the Decurio of Astrum had to fight claw and feather to get an inch of respect for the enlilian traditions of eld. The Polus family had proudly held that title since record could recall, and he was the next in line, whether he liked it or not. Vis, he was tired. Still, he hoped she would write soon so he could have his answer, one way or another. Even if she despised the sport, one invented by other cultures, she did still allow him to partake in the competitions, even hired the coach he asked for.
Knowing his time was limited before his fencing class, Perfectus sought to move about the city, this time on much less painful terms. With his mother away, it was important that the Decurio’s son was maintaining public appearances.
Where his sandals clapped lightly against great bark, whispers followed.
‘Is that the Polus boy? My, he’s grown up so fast!’
‘Truly, he’ll have all our daughters vying for his attentions.’
‘I could think of no better than him to succeed Decurio Polus.’
‘I heard he has a figure skating competition in Zephii ‘pon the moon. He’ll do Astrum proud, and give those lessers what for!’
He tried to mask any reaction he might have. To react with appreciation would be overconfidence, to react with disdain would be disrespect. No, to be the Decurio’s son was to be impassive, and he long accepted his role. Even still, that private part of him begrudged it all. Yet another thing to be hidden away. The skating was passed off as his mother’s idea, an act of cultural outreach, though it did earn her some skepticism. Perfectus appreciated that she took the hit to her reputation for him.
The sport had been developed over time by both the laicar and velen, popularized by Filice Fluxa, a spurii who sought to embrace both her heritages, and the best figure skater to ever live.
Perfectus could only hope to be as good as her some day - though being an enlil did offer some unique advantages and weaknesses. While it was hardly comfortable, the wings that connect from the arms to hip could be restrained in such a manner to allow for extended gliding in the air during a performance, allowing for such ambitious moves as the one he had been trying to learn with Coach Glacies for months. She’d never pushed him this hard before, and the small worry that cropped up at his first failure had grown to overshadow any genuine confidence he felt for the competition. He could make empty threats to frozen lakes all he liked, but the harsh reality was that he couldn’t get the move down.
Perfectus stopped his stroll in the middle of one of the drawbridges that connected larger clusters of carved settlements upon the great woods of Astrum. He gazed out, a vista through the brush that showed the distant Mount Othrys. The city’s infrastructure was connected, much like all enlil are. One flock. That was the motto of the Astrum enlil. It was a bit of an esoteric concept, but it was held that all enlil are connected by their tradition, by their unique freedoms, and that it was the duty of the enlil to maintain their histories in order to preserve their connections. An oft mocked and scandalous stance was that the Decurio of Astrum would go so far as to denounce the creation of airships, as the gift of flight was the enlil’s to claim. That an airship was used frequently by the Decurio for travel was a coincidence many of her supporters were willing to overlook.
He wasn’t sure how much of it he believed, but he turned back to stare at the colossal trunk of the Polus estate’s residence. It was said that the central tree, in which the decurio of Astrum has ever resided, was taller even than the Specula Sorcere in Terminus.
Releasing a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, he turned back to the mountain. His class started soon, and these moments of fleeting thought sought only to distract him from his duty. Even still, as he forced his shining purple eyes away from the expansive world before him and back to the city he’d walked for nearly eighteen years, he felt the nagging sense in his mind that the enfeebling tiredness he felt was not just from his training, but the longing to move past these well-trodden arbors.