apostatised | [log] but no one can assume the higher ground

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[log] but no one can assume the higher ground

Potentially against his better judgement, Martel's recently taken on another student - Anna, a sharp-eyed little thing from the nexus, plotting murder she's calling justice and he's calling vengeance in his head - and today he expects to see her, in the afternoon. There's a full morning's work that requires him before he can bathe and change his clothes (it's very physical work), and tell Ewar to collect the girl from the nexus doorway to see him in his study.

With the castle's required renovations more or less complete (the warding waits for Master Snape; Martel has more patience than some people realise), it's not an unimpressive place, and the casual touch of magic is fairly plain about it. If only because the unnatural choice in lighting is impossible to miss. On time, Martel doesn't wait; he works. (It's fascinating how much paperwork is actually manufactured by his endeavours, but he'd been aiming for Vanion's own desk once upon a time - he's not unprepared.)

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"You certainly have sufficient aptitude," he notes. "Banish it."

"Sir." She sits back, and the moon blinks out. The rest blurs, then shreds into nothing.

"We'll leave that aside today. You read, Anna?" Martel rises, indicating with a short gesture that she should accompany him - to the library, more than likely. (This castle half seems to revolve around ~~his pride and joy~~ ~~his baby~~ that library.)

She stands promptly, smoothing her skirts -- compensating for her hair, which is already coming loose. "Ay, sir, passably."

"Language? The date for it, please." Arrangements can always be made, of course, but it's useful to know exactly what they'll need to be, if any.

"...Latin." Because what else would people write in? (Oh, honey.) "Date, sir?"

"The year," he says; 'patiently' would be a stretch, but he's not impatient with her, just matter of fact. "A century, if you can."

There probably is Latin in his library, mixed in with the Elenic, English and Spanish - but he's been a little busy to learn it himself just yet. Hm. Things to bother Candice about: probably this.

Anna blinks, absorbing this. "Five hundred." ...Give or take a few years ~~and, you know, the entire course of factual history~~. Details!

"Sufficient." Probably. (As a note: only one or two torches are lit at a time as they walk through the inner hallways down from his tower, but that particular light seems to be following him like a puppy. So.)

She glances back once, to confirm this impression. Her mouth tucks in at the corners; she did know what she was getting into, after all. (Sort of.)

It snuffs itself out at the library doors when they're opened - easily the most impressively restored part of the castle, and clearly already well lived in. (Don't think too hard about what Martel and Candice may or may not have done on some of the tables. ...and that arm chair.)

"Myself," he says, finally getting toward divulging anything about him, "I was trained from childhood as a knight of the Church - no church you'll know of - and the last decade or so I spent as a mercenary. I train the young men of my neighbour's clan here in the castle, presently; not in sorcery, they're a feet-on-the-ground people."

Anna is duly impressed, though not demonstrative about it; libraries are not much of a thing, where she comes from, and certainly not on any great scale. She looks around thoughtfully, while she considers what to do with this information. "And not of your own?"

"I came here from exile," he says, briefly and vaguely, privately amused. Granted, he's vastly simplifying matters - but it's technically accurate. "I didn't enjoy dying so much I'd risk doing it again."

That gets him a startled look, unguarded wide eyes. She glances down quickly. "Forgive me, sir."

"Bringing back the dead is an unfortunate habit of the nexus, and I'm not offended." He offers her a seat - by the fire, it's cold in Arum this time of year - and considers how to explain. Most of the details are unpleasant or simply best not discussed in polite company, but if she's going to be his student, there are some matters it's simpler to get out of the way first.

Still not sitting - there's a book or two he wants for this, there was a purpose to coming down here - he starts, "Let's say I have intimate experience with mixing politics, religion and personal feud."

Anna sits, obedient, and watches him closely, her face open and serious. Listening is one thing she's good at -- at least when there's something she wants.

"There are types of magic-" his voice is deep and steady, halfway between professorial and someone about to strike, "-that are intrinsically damaging to the psyche of the practitioner. I misjudged; betrayed my family, King, country and two separate pantheons in the process."

...look, when Martel does something, he doesn't do shit halfway.

She draws breath to answer; and shuts her mouth. Old Tregereth said much the same thing, repeatedly -- you don't want to meddle with that, lady dear -- but he's clearly leading up to something, and she's here to learn, not to brag. She clasps her hands again, tightly.

In that same semi-dangerous conversational tone, Martel does go on, "As I was stripped of the more significant of my powers, my knighthood and my titles, I was furthermore banished - which I flouted some years later, after establishing myself as the best of the best as far as mercenaries on the continent go." It would be bragging if he hadn't turned almost clinical in his recount.

"There was a war - a god whose pay I was in for the opportunity to punish who'd wronged me - and my brother, presently Prince Consort to the Queen, killed me, killed the god, more than likely destroyed the city we were in and rather efficiently got his own vengeance for who I'd destroyed rather negligently on my way."

Martel pauses, briefly. "I'm reforming. There isn't redemption for that, and certainly none after death. What I'm saying to you is there are lines in the sand, whatever your cause. Learn where they are. If you cross one I don't like, you will learn not to. If you cross one there's no coming back from, I'll kill you myself." Not something he'd ordinarily say to a student, but Anna reminds him ... incredibly worryingly of himself. "You have your option to leave, if you'd prefer."

(Surely she's imagining the mild note of challenge.)

Well. That got her attention.

Anna lifts her folded hands to her mouth for a moment, watching him with sober dark eyes; then lowers them again, still unhurriedly. Her expression has not altered, but she's a little paler now. "I understand you, my lord."

"Good," Martel says, whatever that was sliding behind the blinds again and just leaving genuinely unsettling intensity in its place.

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[log] but no one can assume the higher ground

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