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The boy was crying, a child’s deep, chest-tearing bawl of frustration and despair. His fine clothes were caked in spring mud, the golden tresses nearly hidden beneath dirt. He had thrown himself at the older masters guard and [[shield]], hammering, pushing, striving with every ounce of will in his body to succeed, finally, for once. To no avail. Finally, he had collapsed of exhaustion and a tap of the arms masters lathe. “''Your majesty''” The arms master bowed low as a nobler shadow fell across the prone and noisome shape. “''Get up''”. So serious today, every word weighted. Slowly, the boy rose, wiping his face, smearing snot across his cheek. The king hugged him, careless of his own clothes, or the mess that caked from that wet face into his beard. At arms length then, quietly. “''You can never get angry like your father! Your fathers rage gave edge to his prodigious strength, but you are not he''.” The boy wiped his nose on his sleeve, and spoke to his feet “''I’m not angry, I’m ashamed.''” His majesty searched his wards’ face, eyebrows climbing his brow. “''Ashamed? Why?''” Small hands balled up into fists, and relaxed. “''You told me to get past his guard, I’m sorry, I've tried for months, but I cant!''” “''You will never be able to batter your way through a problem.''” The child was quiet now, watching the man who had in so many ways become his father with serious blue eyes. “''You must always stay in control. Always think. Always be one step ahead. And your hand” the king took the smaller hand in his own “must follow that thought. Be fast. Be, above all, focused.''” The arms masters' liege rose, ruffled his wards hair, and grimaced “''Such a mess. You’ll have to bathe tonight''”. The boy nodded, picking up his [[sword]], shaking a little from exhaustion. The king stepped away. “''Again.''”
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