A Maelstrom Contained

     "What is your purpose?" Baillieu asked the boy.
     "To fight." 
     "To fight?" Baillieu asked, with a tinge of mock surprise in his voice. "But for what?"
     "For the protection of those who need it."
     "That is a noble reason, but hardly honest, now is it?" 
     "Then what should I fight for?" The boy was beginning to get frustrated.
     "Fight for your survival.  Fight for your friends.  Fight for your family. Fight because you should fight, not because you wish to fight."
     "But, sir, I have no family."
      This response stung Baillieu a little.  They had been meeting now every few months for three years.  He had begun to care strongly for this strange child, so awkward socially, but so moving and charismatic at others.  He had the Civire traits through and through: singular purpose, drive, and fierce tenacity, even to his own ruin, if need be. 
       "You have me." Baillieu spoke softly.
        "Yes, I do.  You are the closest thing I have to family.  You're also my only friend." Ryven paused. "Should I fight for you, then?"
        "If I'm ever in need, then, yes." 
        "So, I should fight for those in need, then?"
        "Yes." Baillieu replied.
        "That doesn't do me a lot of good right now, with no one in need of a fighter." 
        Baillieu sighed.  The kid had a point.  Try as he might, he couldn't imagine Ryven as anything other than a warrior.  He certainly wasn't a poet.  He wasn't a philosopher.  He wasn't a mathematician, and politics would serve only to bore him.  His only interest in any of those was how they applied to warfare.  This is where he excelled.  This also proved to be the secret to containing the maelstrom of fire and rage inside him. The idea had occurred to him when he came for a visit and found Ryven in a state of deep concentration in the garden.  He watched the child for nearly an hour without seeing him so much as move.  He couldn't believe the strict focus and discipline the child exhibited.  It clashed strongly with the undisciplined hellion he was everywhere else.  So, he broke Ryven's concentration.
         "Ryven, I think I have a way for you to channel your fire."
         Ryven turned around on the bench and looked at him.  His eyes were those of a tranquil soul.  He had been reliving a past fight, feeling the harsh thud of his fist striking flesh, the taste of blood in his mouth, the sounds of feet on hard steel.  These were his music.
         "Have you ever taken any training in the martial arts?"
         The boy's eyes brightened, but he shook his head.
         "I think that may be the answer."
         Ryven trained in a traditional form of Caldari martial arts, a fierce form of fighting that focused one's rage and hatred into each and every blow, and could be extremely deadly if used by a master.  Ryven took to it immediately.  He found an outlet for his fire.  He found a way to channel his wrath into a single punch or kick.  He spent hours every day, sometimes as much as twenty hours in a day training.  The beginning of a purpose was forming.