The Old crone said her goodbyes, her heart laid heavy, burdened at another loss. She had two choices in the matter: raise the babe as her ward or leave him to decay.
She knew the grandmaster and his way of thinking. The boy's life will only ever be about the Creed as compensation. Perhaps, such a life can only lead to destruction.
He will most likely be in the tower. Her body shifted in protest; she needed rest. After today, she thought.
He whispered these words, shushing him slightly. "Little one, your mother is gone now and without her we are both lost. We wanted a better life for you. One without all this death. I can no longer keep that dream alive; I have nothing of the outside world. So, my teachings for you will be half empty. Mrs. Crone will handle you with care until it's time for your training. I must go and spread your mother's remains. I do not know when we will meet again".
No words were passed between them as he took his leave of the tower. The Old Crone said nothing as she smiled softly to the babe.
"Your name will be Varamyr after my father's father".
The years slowly passed, until the child came of age. To them he was the light, to others a naive boy who desired to walk in path of men. He truly knew nothing and that was his cause.
His first words were mother, a term of endearment she had long forgotten, what it was like to be needed beyond her physical capacity. It was difficult for her to separate the two. Her son, the thought put her mind at ease. Her husband took to him kindly but even he knew his limits. Rather than being called father he made the boy call him by his name.
A sad reminder that he wasn't truly theirs. They filled his life with joy, of thoughts outside the Masyaf. They focused on scholarly things rather than the knife or the sword in hopes that he would one day engineer a better future for his generation rather than death.
They're time was limited. Varamyr knew of his origins but did not yet know the true fear of his father. They failed him, for their first meeting was anything but kind.
She remembered it like it was yesterday. The sun had not even begun to set, while the boys trained in the yard, and the men began they're trust falls, her son was creating a play for the servants. He came like the wind that one. The grandmaster hair was as wild as ever. He seemed to have grown even more in the arms, broader in chest, towering even in his own shadow.
The sorrow he once held in his eyes no longer constricted his face. Her smile laid flat on her face at the sight of him. "Mrs. Crone". A servant took the bags, the flies circled around them like vultures, the blood on his hands had already dried up.
"I will not permit you to see him. She pleaded her case. He is a good lad who deserves a life free from servitude. You may have brought him into this world, but I have carried him through with my own two hands. Heed my warnings, as a mother who already lost her boys do not make me lose another. Even now you have brought death at your side. "I have given him enough time, anymore and he will be behind. He is still my son; his character has nothing to do with me as long as my legacy passes on".
"Your legacy will bring pain and suffering. He loves history and the plays behind it. Is that not enough". He sat in the back on top of the hay, as the servants gathered.
"Greetings, ladies and gentlemen. I present to you, a time of loss".
The old crone watched as he reenacted the girl's deceitful game. She became the emblem of disdain. An overstep in her attempt for status, made her the laughing stalk of the game. A true shame for she did have potential and the templars deemed it well. "She was killed before she could give away our secrets".
It seems the grandmaster felt the same way about her boy. For, when the time came, she stood still, as her husband supported her weight, she came crumbling down on the ground. Her legs finally gave out and she had no choice but to watch as her sweet boy picked up his first blade in her defense. The tactical knife, its only aim is to teach self-defense. The first scar he ever received, was because of her.
She had to watch as he grew in height, in frame, and obedience, to any love for history was long forgotten. What remains is the blade, the scars and the image of a mother's tears. She was reminded of her place.
Now the sun truly began to set. "Be careful". "I will, mama, I promise to watch, the old bear's back. Tell papa I'll be home soon". Her sweet boy had grown into a kind soul, the only hardships that were truly shown were on his body. She wondered when this war will end. When mothers no longer had to send their sons on missions. When daughters no longer had to die on the martial bed. How many more missions must they fight to end this war?