At the age of nearly four hours old a boy identified only as Edward was found crying on the floor of an abandoned Methodist Temple in the inner district of the ancient city of Chicago. The savior of the boy was Ricard Touso, a man sent to the temple on business that had nothing to do with collecting a new born infant. However, upon being alerted to Edward’s presence, the good Mr. Touso felt obligated to, at the very least, find a suitable home for the boy. He completed the work he had been sent to do and returned with Edward from whence he had come, which would be the Sanctuary of the Broken Sword.
The Brotherhood of the Broken Sword consists of an elite group of men who were gathered in the wake of the Great Decline and were trained as highly-educated citizen warriors. The organization was begun by the last Pinkerton Agent from the former United States with the intention to maintain a private outlet that could hold a neutral sway in a large scale conflict. While their existence has remained largely unknown to the general public they have been involved in every major event since the Great Decline.
Since its formation more than a century and a half ago the brotherhood has evolved from a professional membership into a spiritual sect. Members are only accepted if found worthy by trial and, pending approval, are educated in all the arts in order to eventually reach the level of warrior philosophers or, in other words, the modern samurai.
Edward, having been brought to the temple by a member, was permitted to be raised by Brother Ricard until the age of twelve. The following is Edward’s account of his twelfth year:
I was not afraid when they took me. My father had told me they would come. As they stole me from my bed I fell limp as I had been instructed. Fighting back would have proved fruitless and shameful. They placed me inside a small dark box where I would remain for nine months. My father explained to me that I was to be reborn inside the brotherhood.
The box was never opened. No sound was heard. Light became a faint memory. I learned to find comfort in the quite place, this forgotten corner. They would pour water through the cracks of the box and slip bread and leaves through in moderation. I listened to my heartbeat, a consistent reminder that I was still alive. I re-lived every moment of my childhood over and over again. Every memory remembered and repeated until they blurred into one consciousness. When the darkness overtook me I chanted the mantra spoken to me from my father. Move forward. Constantly Move Forward.
The days grew darker, but I could feel my mind growing stronger. Stronger against the resolve of a constant darkness. Move forward. As time passed the pails of water through the cracks turned to drips. The bread and leaves were fragmentary, only a bare minimum. Move forward. The final days were spent in drought. Biting fingernails. Holding every ounce of water. Licking the wooden box for any hint of moisture. Move forward.
On the final day the box was lifted and taken before the Master. My box was opened among a sea of like boxes. I stood from the wrecked shell only to find a handful of others rise from the myriad of boxes surrounding us. We few stood shaking, nearly lifeless from the ordeal we had endured. The box on my right housed a boy my same age who had succumbed to the trial. His body had wasted into nothing, gray and lifeless. His arms and legs were extraordinarily long and his joints had swelled from the great pressure of being trapped inside the box. His face was clenched in fear, covered in the shadow of the box. I have never forgotten this expression.
I could not see, for the light was much too bright, but I heard the Master speak. This is what he said:
Brothers, you have arisen from the deepest darkness. You are reborn into this Brotherhood. Do not weep for those around you who have not risen to the task. They have received nothing more or less than what you yourself have undertaken. It was simply their will, their strength of mind that failed.
Never forget what you lost here. The fear. What you have gained is tremendously more valuable and will never be taken from you. Your trial is over Brothers. Now you begin your training.
I would never hear the master speak again. This audience was a gift and was, for most, the only one they would ever receive in their lifetime.
In the following months I was given back to my father. He fed me with food and knowledge, both of which I dipped heavily from. He revealed the secrets of the Brotherhood to me, their history, their mission, and, most importantly, their moral code. We followed the ancient samurai in practice, word, and deed. The tenets of honor, courage, benevolence, respect, honesty, rectitude, and loyalty were shown to me daily in the observation of my father with his affairs.
In my eighteenth year I was taken again. The Brotherhood sent word and I was collected from my father for the final training. In our final days together he gave me my first and last sword. When the day came and I was retrieved he cried. His face was clenched in sadness as I had seen once before. I did not cry, but I felt a heaviness, a sadness I could not describe.
Upon our collection my brothers and I began our final training. The first day we were lined up in a large hall and, after waiting for several hours, were approached by a single man. He possessed no weapons save for his hands and his words. One by one we were all challenged by the disarmed fellow. Those who refused to fight were broken and cast out, the rest of us were merely broken.
We were all housed together in a small barrack with one bed for every three men. We cut the mattresses and made hammocks so that every man could rest without resentment from the next. The next day we were taken to an open field in which the same man who had beaten us the day before instructed us upon our individual weaknesses. We became stronger and able to surpass our own inadequacies. Once a week we were challenged. We were allowed any weapon and were promised that if we were ever to strike our instructor we would be awarded a high place within the order of the Brotherhood. Our teacher was never touched.
In the midst of training we were each given a letter. We were instructed to keep its contents secret from the other brothers with the penalty of sharing the information being death. My letter detailed how my fellow brothers had been plotting against me, fearing my potential and talent. My following weeks were spent in silence; my waking moments spent watching the others. All the brothers seemed to creep in the shadows, hiding from one another.
Weeks later we were informed that the same letter had been sent to every man. This was meant to be our instruction in how to hide when the enemy is all around. How to camouflage our emotions to our closest of comrades.
In the end we were all sent to different places. I do not know what will become of those I trained with. I am to be sent to moderate a faction that has become overly concerned with balance and numbers. This record is my final task before becoming a full Brother.
It will soon be unimportant to continue contact with the Brotherhood. My presence is my purpose. If I fail others will take my place. My life is just begun.
~Edward St. Cavalier
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