Strangers . . .

Tirian sat on the side of a grassy mound, arms folded on his knees, as he looked out over the lake in front of him. Though he couldn't see clear detail across the lake, he knew that there was a little teahouse, a serene setting set up for its situation and comfort. The evening was pleasant, the colors in the sky worth the time for examination, and the land was quiet, peaceful, as though setting a space aside for one traveler's thoughts and reflections.
Tirian had plenty to think about. His gaze set on the far side of the lake, his thoughts were soon to follow. Yuika had looked well this day, and though she still seemed to suffer lingering effects of the addiction, Tirian suspected that most of that was due to her mind believing a need; the symptoms were certainly greatly lessened. Her natural beauty was beginning to be allowed to show, and perhaps could be hoped to shine. She had been, even under the influence of the opium, very pretty. He suspected that, restored to health, the Lady of Dying Crane would likely be the envy of all she communed with. She had even remained poised during the course of their conversation, and she seemed to be more at ease with him. He still did not trust to leave her to herself, for fear that those surrounding her might still have a foothold. Tirian chuckled at the thought. As strong-willed as Yuika seemed, she could so very easily swayed if the right trigger were presented her. No, he thought, she is not quite free. What he had learned that evening about the Lady of Dying Crane was more than he had anticipated, and he felt the burden in his heart increase for the young woman who had lost so much of her youth. Did she even know who she was? She apparently had some memory of it, and must feel the result, even if it was without explanation in her own mind. She had shared of Hishinuma, an instructor for whom she showed a great deal of affection in her very young years, one who had obviously treated her well, and inspired great feeling in her. Tirian doubted very much that the instructor shared the feelings, but still the girl would have been greatly effected by the acquaintance. And then, enter Lord Shigeru, ~Tirian spat as he thought in revulsion of so twisted a Noble~ and Yuika's fragile world would have crashed around her, with no foundation to which she could cling. He shook his head again, picking at the grass, thinking that Itsuki, clever, shrewd and intelligent, could have been a great shelter to her young charge. No, he thought, there is motive there. We will find out what.
His thoughts became more introspective, as his contemplations reminded him not only of what she had shared, but what he too had revealed of his own situation. He shook his head. He had told the Lady Yuika of his past, or at least a portion of it. He shared just a little of the haunting memories and ghosts that chased him. The story of his ancestor being carried out of a crumbling palace, men in black robes and scarves, cruel blades, terror, blood and running. He had revealed the real name of his house, something that he had determined never to do with anyone outside the House. Silver Crescent risked no longer being a secret. HE had risked that. For what? Did he hope to win her trust by sharing this information? Her help? Her hand? He shook his head furiously. The story itself, the recollection of what had been was not so secret as that it happened, and that the Lord of Silver Crescent still lived. He bit his lip a little thinking of his faceless enemies, of what consternation it would be to discover that the last of the line of the closest House to an Empire was still breathing. Would they still remember, this many generations away? Of course they will. Do not I? He looked behind him, back toward the encampment. His fear was not for himself, but for those who followed him, loved him, trusted him.What was I thinking? I do not know if she is to be trusted. SHE may not even know. If she has heard of Silver Crescent, what will she do with the information? Rubbing his neck at the discomfort of the thoughts, he inevitably found himself sitting near a fire, quite a number of years earlier . . .
A boy in his later teens sat staring at the man across the fire, a man with strikingly similar features to the boy's own, though hardened by a number of years, and especially haggard this night. The young man narrowed his eyes at his father, trying to form the question that he had wanted to ask since his father and three companions had gotten back to the camp a half hour before, half dragging a man that looked close to death. His story had been that the man, obviously a noble, was being robbed and beaten, likely to have been killed but for the arrival of four men, armed with swords and bows, quickly taking the fight, though outnumbered 2-1. Now Tirian's father, freshly treated for the wounds on his arm and abdomen, prepared to meet his son's questions, knowing that the time would come for them. "Father," began the younger, soft-featured but proud, "for what reason did you do that? I thought that you had said that we were not to interract with other Houses, that we were to let them manage their own affairs, even if that meant sorrow for them in the short term. Did you not say that these were the mistakes of our forefathers, of looking outside of our own walls, when we carried enough trouble of our own?" "My son," the father began. "You misunderstand . . ." but Tirian was not finished and in growing obstinence overspoke his father. "You said that we were to apart from the ways of the nobles, to learn and to seek, never to interfere. This was for our protection as well as theirs." "Son," the father replied, a bit more sternly, "I really do believe that your feelings are elsewh . . ." Tears burning the face of the youngster now, he raged, "And you left your mission! Everything that our lives are supposed to be geared toward! You let him get away! The answers that could have been had! The endless searching finding an avenue at last! And for what? " He pointed at a nearby tent, hastily erected for the ragged nobleman. "A man who would just as quickly have you chased from his land, and probably will not survive the night!" "ENOUGH!" His father's voice was firm, loud enough to be heard. Tirian knew he had overstepped, and glared at his father. Tears burned his cheeks, but he remained silent, tightening his jaw in fury. Standing up, he looked at his son sternly, and then softened his expression. "My son, the greatest sin of the House of Silver Crescent was pride and arrogance. And I fear that you have yet to learn that lesson." Holding himself upright, though his face was pale, Darian, Lord of Broken Rampart, bowed his head to his son and walked off to his tent one more time, an image that would haunt the son in memory forever . . .
Tirian closed his eyes against the memory, wishing it away, and letting it sear into his soul, the final lesson his father would convey. "Father," he whispered to the cooling night air, "I think I understand . . ." Giving in to the recollection, Tirian, Lord of Broken Rampart, bowed his head and wept.