How else can one explain, their terms of reaching an understanding of oneself? To, explain the moment when they truly realized that they could no longer consider themselves a part of the humane world—that they were truly different. Not in the sense that most would describe the term ‘different’, no not at all… But perhaps I am too far into this explanation already. If I am to make an attempt at all, it seems best suited to start at the beginning…

Life, one might say, is an exquisite adventure full of uniqueness that can only be unlocked if the person so chooses to do so. My life was an exquisite hellhole. Riches and fame are not all anyone ever says them to be. As a boy, I grew up with the simple knowledge that the wealth and power my family lavished in, would never be mine. In truth, I did not care much for the fineries all I wanted was to be myself—to be able to express myself in the ways that I chose. But my father did not seem to care about what I wanted, for I was merely the third son; the son that would never be remembered in the legacy of the Maurlias family. It was as if my life had been written before my very birth. To grow up a true gentleman, to learn and experience the ways of the noblemen, and then be thoughtlessly pushed aside as my elder brothers took to the responsibilities and held the full weight of our family crest: that was my life.

Who was I compared to the eldest of the Maurlias sons, Dreu? What say did I have in any matters at all? I was the third son, the forgotten. But I once heard that when one door closes, another one opens. I found the statement to be quite true, as my passions were restored in the ability of knowing that I did have a purpose in life.

In the respective ideals of a dreamlike scene, I can recall the first time I held a sword. It was a mistake, but it was a mistake for the better and it turned the course of my otherwise tortured years of childhood. I took great respect to the art of fencing and yet, I also denied myself some of the better parts of the sport. To focus completely upon my rapier as if it were merely an extension of my own arm was what I wanted to accomplish. Any other weapon, even if it were for defense purposes only, would have clouded that pure thought in my mind. Thus, I became dependant upon the rapier alone.

Oftentimes I found it hard to find the proper time to sneak off to my swordplay, though. And finding a proper opponent was even more difficult, so much to the point of where I would be unable to practice as I spent my time looking for someone to practice with.

I thought that with all my hard work, my father might actually praise me for once. Praise my ambition to succeed, encourage me to continue in my activities, acknowledge me as one of his sons. I suppose I was asking too much for my troubles, though. Actually, looking back now, thinking of how he reacted when he found out what I had been doing, thinking about how he scolded me, compared me to Dreu as if I were some homeless dog…it almost makes me sick.

Well, it did actually; made me sick enough to force myself to run away from home, taking only my rapier and a few necessities. I had begun to believe again, that the sword was my life now and nothing else should or would matter. Unfortunately, it seemed I had collected some ill fortune as, the same night that I left also happened to be harvesting a rather large storm. Completely thrown off guard, I ran for any form of sanctuary that would protect me from the blustering winds and the piercing rain. I do not even remember running, all I can recall is tripping over a slipper rock and blacking out. Perhaps that was the foreboding of my death; that I was destined to die in this pitiful storm after having angered my father so that whatever bonds we had could never heal.

But, as fate would have it, I did not die. Rather, I was very well alive when I became conscious and that was apparent by the horrible pain of a sweltering bump on my head. I sat up—a ragged blanket had been covering me—and the warmth of a well-kindled fire greeted me. The cave was otherwise empty, save a few items that served as a shadow of my Samaritan; a small pack, a pile of branches and sticks, and a rather large hat adorned with a brilliant, ivory feather.

“A Musketeer?” I remember the words clearly, as they spilt from my mouth full of surprise.

Then I met him.

“You’re awake.” His voice had an eloquence that not even Dreu could maintain, a true note of gentlemen from this ruffian of the journey. “Don’t strain yourself; you hit your head rather hard.”

I barely caught his words; I was too caught up in him. His occupation as Musketeer was spoken all too loudly by his appearance alone. He wore a finely embroidered tunic atop a dandy shirt, black leather gloves to cover his hands, and a wonderfully decorated rapier was hilted to his side. I felt captivated by that rapier, my eyes transfixed upon the golden intertwined bands of décor, following every curve and flat of the hilt and sheath.

He must have noticed my staring, because he laughed aloud. It was a hearty laugh, as he tilted his head back and let his hand fall upon my shoulder several times. “You seek the knowledge of the sword, yes?”

I shook my head, explaining to him that I knew much of the sword. He allowed me the time to explain the situation to which I found myself, and never once interrupted. A kind man he was, to save my life, and to listen to my worries as if he took them to his own heart. Once I had finished he rose, extending a hand to me.

From then on, I was his traveling partner, and he was my teacher. Months passed, and I had told him almost everything of myself, yet he had shared very little of himself. Harper was his name, and he claimed to have left his home around the age that I had. If I questioned him further though, he would immediately change the discussion as if he had not heard the question. Eventually, I stopped pursuing answers I would never get.

The experience, however, was exhilarating. I learned so much and experienced so many things I never would have imagined. Harper posed the perfect picture I had always thought of when I read of the Musketeers, which I must confess proved the fact that we were not truly living a real Musketeer’s life. But that did not matter to me because I knew that when I was to return home my father would look better upon me.

Or that was what I hoped for. Unexpectedly, my life was headed straight for a cliff; ready to take a dive that would change everything that I had worked for.

The night was clear, and the full moon showered light upon the forest in which we camped. Harper was tending to the remaining embers of our once blazing fire, myself staring at the disturbed debris that flew upwards, glowing like fireflies.