Blake tensed and looked up at the timer: 6:27. He needed to do something. But what? Laszlo had him pinned. Even if he could get a handle on his magic, if he made a move he'd get blasted again. He didn't know how many more of those he could take. His arm and side screamed at him. He'd almost passed out when he'd gotten knocked into the low shelf. If that happened it was over.
"Come on, Blake! You got this!"
Jacob.
Don't think, just do.
He didn't have a choice. He didn't know any other spells and there wasn't any other cover. He had to make a break for it. The resolution quieted his mind. He grasped for his magic and found it and held onto it. He cast the strength spell and at the same time scrambled forward, out from behind the shelf and onto his feet. His injured arm almost gave out, and he stumbled an extra step, but he pushed through the pain.
Laszlo stood roughly where he had before, hand out. He thrust his arm forward and Production magic flashed.
Blake lunged to the side, scrambling, going to all fours. The cone of force rifled past him. He ran forward. Laszlo shuffled back, eager to keep the distance.
Another shelf of clay thrust up below him but this time he was ready. He leapt up over it, sailing high into the air, and landed. He was close now. He could see the sweat shining on Laszlo's face, his flared nostrils, the tension in his muscles. They were close to the boundary now.
Laszlo thrust his arm forward again.
Blake dodged to the side, but this time no blast came. A feint. The realization came too late. Laszlo tracked Blake's movement with his arm, and just as Blake landed flared Production magic. The cone of force took him square in the chest.
Blake went careening back through the air, carried by his own momentum and the force of the cone. The impact of the cone sent a paralyzing tidal wave of pain throughout his body. His vision darkened.
Then he slammed into the ground, his face scraping against the packed clay, and suddenly he could see again.
Another cone of force crunched into his leg and his vision wavered again. His consciousness was falling down a deep, dark hole, the roar of the crowd and reality of the fight suddenly distant nothings. He groaned and curled in on himself instinctively.
It was over. He was almost in disbelief. He should have been able to win this. He'd trained as hard as he could. Maybe if he'd been stronger, been able to cast stronger Consumption to absorb more damage. But he was weak. Too weak.
Another cone slammed into him and the tension went out of his legs. He screamed with the pain. He could barely think, let alone move. And the only thing going through his mind was that he'd made the run, done the only thing he could, and lost. God he just wanted the pain to stop. It was over and the darkness was seeping in. He'd worked as hard as he could and still hadn't been able to do it. What was the point of any of it? He'd known he wasn't strong enough. Everyone in his family had lost. How could he be any different?
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Blake had heard the car's engine in the driveway and now he pounded down the stairs, hand steady on the railing. The front door opened and his dad walked through in his big brown winter coat, carrying a bag in his offhand.
"Da-ah-d!" Blake called from the landing. Surely this time he'd passed. His dad said that failure was okay as long as you used it as a learning experience. Every time he failed the Ranger Exam he'd learned a little more, gotten a little stronger.
Blake finished the stairs and bolted across to where his father was shaking the snow from his boots. "What happened? You passed this time, right?"
His father smiled and sighed. He stooped down and scooped Blake up, carrying him in the crook of his arm as he made his way into the kitchen.
"No, Blake, I didn't. I was close this time."
"As close as last time?"
"Maybe."
There was something different in his dad's voice but it went over his head. His dad looked sad, his eyes red, but that must have been allergies because his dad never cried.
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Blake was sad because his father was, but he was also happy, because it meant another year of sneaking downstairs to the basement when his mom wasn't paying attention and sitting on the cabinet, feet kicking, watching his dad train, listening to all his little tips and tricks even though he didn't understand most of them. Visualization is important for magic and all sorts of other things. Work as hard as you can, it's the only thing you can control. You either learn the pain of discipline or the pain of regret.
Maybe he'd go train today and Blake could watch. That would be way better than going to the volleyball game with Becca.
"Are you gonna train today?"
"No. I think I need a break after that."
"Aw..."
They all went out for dinner that night to Dave's Diner, where they went after every exam and Blake had fish and chips so it wasn't really all that bad.
His dad didn't train very much after then. Blake would sometimes go a whole week at school and his dad wouldn't be in the basement once. He didn't understand it. Did his dad think he was ready for the next exam already?
And then came the deadline for the exam application for the next year. Each year his dad had gathered Blake and his sisters around and told them he was going to 'try it again this year' and they's celebrate. But this year when the day came he seemed sad again.
"I'm not going to try the exam this year."
Blake's sisters were surprised, and asked a bunch of questions, but Blake hardly heard them. He couldn't believe it. Not try the exam? It didn't make sense.
"I want to focus on raising all of you. Maybe some time down the road I will. But for now, I'm taking a break."
But 'down the road' never came. Blake grew up, and up, started playing volleyball, went to middle school. Through all the years he still expected his dad to eventually go try the exam again. It wasn't a question. It simply was. Occasionally he'd find his dad in the basement again and would watch him, transported back to eager childhood. More often he'd catch him at the window, or up late watching the Tisdale Tournament after the rest of the family had gone to bed, an unspeakable anguish emanating from him. He could see the little light in his dad's eyes while he watched those matches, while in the silent moments, and even though he never said anything Blake knew he yearned for it. It was as if a cloud came over him every time he was reminded of it or engaged with the magical community. A cloud that Blake would come to know later, of all places in the middle school volleyball final, walking back into the locker room after losing 3-2, realizing it was over and the next year he'd be in high school and he'd never get another chance at the middle school regional championship. If only he'd trained a little harder. If only he'd practiced more, watched more film. If only he'd been more locked in. In that moment he understood his father, the pain of regret he carried with him, and he knew he never wanted to feel it again as long as he lived.
He also knew in that moment that his dad would never write that exam again. The dream was dead, and with it had died a piece of his dad.
He'd let it die. He'd given up. He'd gone against the very things he'd taught Blake. The pain of discipline. Working as hard as you could. Blake knew his father had worked hard, but in the end he'd given up. Not hard enough.
And maybe he'd had his reasons but the regret was still the same. For a while maybe Blake hated him for it, felt betrayed, but he loved his father too much, and when he had gotten his magic, he'd work as hard as he could. He'd become a Ranger despite his low ability. He'd do what his dad hadn't been able to do.
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Force crashed into Blake again and he slid back. He was still conscious. He was still holding on to his magic.
You're giving up.
The pain of discipline or the pain of regret? Did he want to watch this tournament for the rest of his life and ask himself, what if? Did he want to lament his loss and be plagued by the idea that he could have worked harder, done more?
It hurts too much...
No! This pain was nothing. Nothing compared to the regret that would dog him for the rest of his life. He could still breathe. He could still move. He could still do. He wouldn't give up. He wouldn't end up like his father. He would win here, for him, for himself.
In that resolve a thought flashed across his mind:
They're going to have to wheel me out of here on a stretcher.
His eyes were wide open, the pores and little indents in the clay right in front of his face. He pushed himself to his hands and knees. Another blast struck him in the side. He screamed and squeezed his magic as hard as he could, forcing as much into his body as he could manage.
Go.
He lurched to his feet and blocked another blast with his arm. He thought his forearm might have cracked but he couldn't tell.
Laszlo's eyes widened in shock, but the other boy quickly gritted his teeth.
Blake ran forward with both arms held up in front of him. Laszlo blasted him again. And again. It was nothing. He'd taken one, two, three, he could take more.
He threw himself at Laszlo. The other boy leapt back, dangerously close to the boundary, but he moved with the comparative sluggishness of the unaugmented. Either he couldn't augment his strength or he didn't have enough left in the tank. Blake careened forward. He batted Laszlo's arm away, sending another blast wide.
He swung back and punched Laszlo in the jaw. The other boy stumbled back, grunting. Blake didn't relent, sweeping in low, grabbing Laszlo around the waist and shoving him over.
Laszlo hit the ground, his body outside the white line. And just like that it was over.
"Trier is out of bounds! McGinnis wins!"
The crowd roared.
Laszlo looked up at Blake, visibly frustrated. "You're crazy."
Blake barely heard him. The announcer's voice echoed in his mind. He let his head rock back on his neck, staring up at the sky. He raised his fist into the air and realized he was close to tears. That one's for you, dad.
He passed out.