Thrax

“Take your time,” said Agena.  “Just tell me the best you can.”

He lifted his head again and continued.  “I spoke of how proud I am to be a Knight.  And I am.  I’ve been proud since I first came to the Spires for Squire training.  I’ve been proud of every achievement as a pupil, every skill that I mastered, every step that I took to become a full-fledged Knight.  I’ve been proud of advancing from one color of rank, to two, to three.  The Knighthood has been my home and my identity.  It has framed and colored everything about me and my life and what I think and feel about myself.  I hardly know where the Knighthood ends and I begin; that is how much I’ve given myself to this life. 

And truly, I’ve never wanted any other identity.  I have never wanted to be anyone or anything else but what I am.  But now, the laws and customs of my world tell me that I must put aside that identity, the only thing that I want to be, to become something else, something that I did not choose.  I’m commanded to go from warrior dragon to prize bull.  It is as if I’m now called upon to change the way that I see myself.  And that is the thing I’ve been resisting.”

“I understand,” said Agena.  “But Thrax…not being a warrior for a while and helping your world in a different way doesn’t change who you are.  You see that, don’t you?”

Now, their eyes locked together, and they felt a charge between them, as if they felt their eyes doing what they wished their bodies were doing.  Neither of them completely welcomed that feeling at this moment.  It could only make things unclear.  Nevertheless, there it was.

“I do see that,” Thrax said in a half-whisper.

“But still, this is something different from anything else you’ve ever been commanded to do,” she realized aloud.  “Your people have sent you to guard ships and cities, to bring down lawbreakers, to go into battles, and you’ve done it all because you see that as who you are and it’s what you love.  You’ve seen yourself being a Knight and a warrior.  You’ve just never seen yourself being a father.”

“It’s true,” said Thrax.  “This change in my image of who I am is not one I’ve been prepared to accept.”

“Because you think it would tie you to another kind of life, something that’s outside what you think about yourself.”

“Yes.”

“Thrax, we talked about this  last night.  I’m ready to take first responsibility for the child.  Even full responsibility.  This doesn’t have to be anything more for you than what we do together while we’re here.”

“We did speak of this,” he argued.  “And I say now as I said then — I cannot do that to a child.  I cannot create a life and have it believe for one moment that its father did not want it or did not care.  My conscience will not allow it.  What we do here cannot help but change my life.  It is inevitable.”

Agena leaned back her head and rolled her eyes, feeling very much as if the two of them were flying in circles like the patrol over Lake Shimmershine, but with far less purpose.  “I don’t know where that leaves us, then,” she sighed.

“It all comes back to one thing,” said Thrax.  “To break through this impasse where we now find ourselves, something must change.”  There was a deep and meaningful pause, Agena fixed her eyes on him once more, anticipating something, but she did not know what.  And then Thrax said, “The thing to change must be me.  I must change.”

She was truly startled.  “You…?”

“Yes, I,” he said.  “I cannot abandon my duty, and I cannot abandon my calling.  The only way through what we now face is for me to change.”

“How can you do that?”

“I thought very long about this through the night.  I thought about my station, about what it means, about what I do.  About the nature of being a Knight and what it demands of each of us who wear the skin and the colors and the badge.  There is one fundamental truth in it all, and that is that when we take up the Knighthood, we accept the need for risk.”

“Risk?”

“Yes, Agena—risk.  We risk danger.  We risk injury and perhaps death.  Risk.  What I’m called to do now is a risk of a different kind.  I risk myself.  I risk doing something unlike anything I’ve ever done before.  I risk all the things that I fear a child may face with me as its father.  I risk the possibility of failing my child or of making him feel as if he matters to me less than other things.  I risk creating a young life and breaking its heart.  Risking these things will change me as a man, and perhaps as a Knight as well.  But risk is what we do.  It is who we are.  It is who I am.  Last night, I came to see that.”

“Thrax,” Agena suggested, “maybe you’re looking at this the wrong way.”

“How so?” he asked.

“You’re afraid of being an absent father and what that will do to your son—or daughter.  But you’ve been saying yourself what you’ll be absent for, what you’ll be doing when you’re gone.  You won’t be gone because you don’t care about your child.  It won’t be because you’re selfish and you’re away doing whatever you want to do while your child wonders where you are and why you’re not there.

 It’ll be because you’re doing something important for other people.  And you talk about how proud you are of being a Knight—and you should be.  Maybe if we explain to our son or daughter why you’re away, and show him what you do and why it’s important—maybe he’ll be just as proud as you are.  He might miss you, yes.  He might wish you were around more, that’s true.