By age fifteen, there were a few things that were clear to Tristan. First, he would get his vengeance on Elric Drakonstone for what he did to his Ma. Secondly, his Ma was declining rapidly. Physically, her health was fine, although she did appear a bit malnourished. She never ate. But the biggest change that Tristan noticed was that she did not seem to care to live. She was stoic as a rock. No longer did she care if he was out past dark. Supper was no longer cooked most nights. If it was, it was something sloppily prepared that Tristan did not care for. Because of these things, Tristan realized it was time to take matters into his own hands.

He day dreamed often of the Knights of Windem. It was his dream since boyhood to become prolific, just like his father. It did not burden him because he knew no one expected that of him. In fact, many did not know he existed. He was living in a remote town as it was, far away from the Capital and the Citadel. Their humble house and property were tucked away from the rest of the townsfolk, wedged between the forest and the Twin Hills. The forest went back quite a ways, and on the other side was their uncontested border with Windem’s neighbors, Brantley.

Tristan had aged a year and matured considerably since Elric assaulted his Ma. He had put behind the make-believe story lines in that backyard and converted it into more practical methods of fitness and strength. He could still hear Uncle Bodry’s words, “In order to carry out the will of the mind, the body must be willing and able.” He wanted his body to be able to do what his mind willed. He thought often of his encounter with Elric (who had no doubt thought little about that moment since it occurred) and how weak he was. That kick to the chest had ruined him. He had felt hopeless. He remembered laying there in the swaying grass, almost lifeless. He had made a promise to himself if Elric returned. He intended to follow through with that promise.

His days followed a simple, but repetitive routine. He knew that he ought to start his mornings off with training, since he would be too tired come the evening from chopping wood and catching dinner. He would wake up and immediately head to the creek out back, where the brush met the woods, and fill up half a dozen pails of water. Those would be stored inside for himself and Ma. Then, he got to work. His arms were lanky, his body scrawny. He was still growing but he wanted to be in peak physical shape by the time he was the size his father had been. As of now, he was already an inch away from being six-feet tall.

First, he fashioned a heavy log out of a fallen tree, useful for lifting above his head repetitively and pacing around the yard. Chopping the tree had not been easy itself. But that had simply become a part of the workout. Driving that ax above his head and down onto the wood until it was cut into a suitable size--that had been serious work. He did this for multiple fallen trees until he had multiple logs of varying sizes and weights that could be used to suit his strength training purposes.

Next, he found a strong tree limb in the part of the woods that was not quite a full-fledged forest. There were lots of pine and leaves underfoot but for the most part, this area lacked the thick brush and vines that poked at his shins and left them bloody and torn up. He would leap up and grab the limb with his hands, trying his hardest to hoist himself up until his chin was level with the branch, and then slowly lower himself down--nice and controlled. At first, he was only able to do one. Then, with time, he managed to do five. That had taken at least a month, but it was progress and it felt good. Another month went by and he was soon able to do fifteen without much rest in between. His shoulders were beginning to broaden and his back felt strong.

Then, there was the simplest of maneuvers. Pushups. He would complete them in waves, fifty at a time. He would vary his speed, sometimes going at a hundred miles and hour cranking them out as quickly as possible. Other times he would slow it down, allowing that slow burn to build up his arms and into his chest. Sweat beadlets would drip down his forehead and off the tip of his nose. His white top became drenched until one day he realized it was foolish to dirty his shirts every day. He left his top inside before coming outside to build his strength.

Within six months of this routine, he noticed extreme changes in his body. His pectorals were much more defined, although he still planned to strengthen them as much as he could. His arms had veins running through them, especially after he completed his exercises. He physically felt much better and he knew there was a silent confidence running through him. He hardly needed motivation. If he ever felt tempted into succumbing to his fatigue, he remembered the feeling of that boot on his chest. His Ma’s sobs from inside. That nasty tone of voice from Elric Drakonstone, the Lord Commander of the King’s Armies. He wondered if that was still the case. News from the Capital never made it down this far to the remote town of Sesten.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

There were other things that began to change in Tristan’s routine as well. Supper did not make itself, and his Ma was more and more willing to sleep through her hunger to avoid leaving the house. Her eyes had bags under them and her blue eyes no longer held that same glimmer they used. She was frail and entirely too thin. She was nearing fifty years of life, and she still held that same youthful beauty, but her malnourished look made her a pity to look upon. Tristan did little to motivate her. He had his own struggles inside. He even felt a contempt for his mother creeping into him. What had she done to help them move past the incident with Elric? Nothing. He was a young boy without a father. Was he to figure it all out on his own without a mother now too? His contempt grew for her by the day until the point where they no longer spoke with another. She sat in silence, gnawing disinterested into the meat that Tristan would catch for the two of them. No “thank you honey” or “I love you, dear Tristan”. Those times had gone.

There were times he hoped desperately that she would ask how his day had gone--as many of them had been full of adventure. She never asked. She just sat, hunched over like an old lady and munched on the meat in front of her. A dead look gleamed in her eye. If it was stew, she would blow on it. She would blow, and blow, and blow until Tristan was sure it was cooler than room temperature and likely void of some of the flavor he had worked so hard to infuse in it.

Tracking down dinner for the two of them had to be learned as well. The game that dwelled in the woods was fast, alert, and ultimately smarter than he was. That is until Tristan began to learn. He realized he would have to go deeper into the woods than just the point where the wood met the forest. He would have to go and be a part of nature--sit in the environment of his prey and become part of the forest. He learned to become as still as the trees. He had to control his breathing, take steps that would not crumple the leaves underfoot. He even fashioned a type of soft, moccasin boot that hardly made noise as he tip-toed over the dead leaves that coated the forest floor.

Then came the weapon of choice for hunting down his prey. He had started out with (what else) his wooden sword from Bodry. It had dulled significantly over time, despite the sharpened end that he had chiseled onto it. The rain and weather had made the wood begin to rot and turn green. It felt soft like it would rip in half like paper. Besides, he never came close enough to his prey to actually stab at it with a wooden sword. That hunting weapon had lasted one outing before he knew it would be of no use.

After that realization, Tristan realized he would have to do one of two things. First, he could fashion his own weapon. He could collect rocks, chisel them into an arrowhead, and then tether them to a craft wooden arrow and use that ammunition for a bow he didn’t have. Or, second option, he could journey into town on the other side of the Twin Hills and see what he could find. The only problem was that he didn’t have any coins. Most bows would cost a handful of silver, and that was if he were looking for the cheapest options that would undoubtedly have cheap twine and a cheap bowstring that would snap easily, rendering his weapon useless after a couple of hunting outings.

He made the decision that he would have to journey over the Twin Hills no matter what. He didn’t have the expertise to make a bow. He did consider making a spear and or a sharp stave and hunting for fish in the creek, but he wanted real meat. There was a plethora of wild game in the thick of the forest. He had seen it. Deer, rabbits, squirrels, wild dogs, even boar. He didn’t plan to adventure that far into the forest. The boars were dangerous--far more dangerous than a kick to the chest from Elric Drakonstone. They stayed back a ways, closer to where Brantley’s flowing acres of unoccupied land met the woods line of Windem.

Before setting off across the Twin Hills, Tristan found himself a pair of warm breeches, a clean white tunic, and one of his father’s old forest green cloaks that covered him more like a poncho. He grabbed a long walking stick, which had been one of Uncle Bodry’s old ones that he gifted to Tristan, and then he tucked his sharpened wooden sword between his hip and a piece of string that he had tied around his waist to serve as a make-shift sword belt. He also carried a canteen that contained crisp, cold water from the creek behind the house.

He took one last glance at the house, pictured Ma huddled up in her bed with animal furs draped over her like a sick child that couldn’t move, and then took his first steps toward the busy streets of downtown Sesten. He could make his own spear later. But for now, he wanted a bow. He would barter for one, earn one through labor, or steal one. He wasn’t sure which option sounded best. The one thing he did know was that he wouldn’t be able to buy one outright. They were broke. Tristan and his Ma had nothing besides whatever Tristan had killed that day and brought home.

Tristan was getting tired of carrots, trout, and cabbage. It wasn’t a diet that fuelled a future warrior. If Tristan was to be a warrior someday, he would need to start eating like one. Once he was a warrior, he knew exactly who his first kill would be.