7X535C – 535th Cycle of the Seventh Age
. . . 16 Cycles Later . . .
Storm stood atop a floating island in the sky, the dawn wind passing him by. Beyond the distant swirl of quiet clouds, the sun was just peeking her face into existence. He felt the warmth touch his cheeks as it rose higher, and for a long moment, he took in the beauty of a new day.
Turning his back to the rising sun, Storm walked over to a tree standing not far from the cliff. About thirty paces to the side of him was a quaint wooden cabin, fashioned in a rustic style. Faint traces of smoke rose from its chimney. It was his home, the only home he had ever known.
The little floating island he lived on wasn’t much bigger than the cabin and their one tree. In fact, the cabin itself seemed to take up the majority of it. There was room to run and play, but less so as they had gotten older. Regardless, Storm was content and wished for nothing grander. Who could complain? Being surrounded by the beautiful sky, living on an island that the sun greeted before any other place in all of Soria. And even if he did get a little stir crazy in the small space, all it took was one look north to find Falia, his birthplace: an enormous nation of earth sitting amongst the clouds.
The cliffs infamously known as the Edge were only a rocks throw from where he stood, nestled beyond a blank stretch of dim lit sky. And not far beyond the Edge, he could see the dark trees of Neverend Forest, looming tall and mighty. Needless to say, he, his brother, and his grandfather, were the only ones that lived at the Edge. There wasn’t a town for leagues and leagues. It was peaceful, though sometimes lonely.
Taking off his dark hooded jacket, Storm walked over and hung it on one of the branches of the tree. He wore simple black pants, and shards of black bone, native to all sorians, grew out of the skin over his ribs like an exoskeleton, along with certain parts of his wrists and shoulders. Hanging from his neck was a silver chain that held a rune, and etched onto the surface of it was his name, written in the language of the old.
“One day,” he whispered, gently touching the rune. “I’ll figure out where you came from . . . where we came from.”
Leaning against the tree trunk was a leaden training sword with a wide guard; it was charcoal in color but had no edge to it. With a few deep breaths, Storm lifted the sword off the ground, wincing under its weight. He hadn’t been able to lift the sword at all until he was fourteen cycles old, a triumph that still shined brightly in his memories.
A few feet to his right was a thin metal rod sticking out of the ground with a dozen steel rings slipped over the top of it. With the careful ease of someone lifting a heavy object, Storm picked up one of the rings and slid it over the tip of the training sword. It fell down to the guard with a thump, and he felt the weight of the sword rise significantly. Lifting another ring in the same fashion, Storm continued placing them onto his weapon until three of the rings had fallen down to the guard.
Storm walked to the side of the tree, then took a deep breath and raised the sword above his head. Closing his eyes, he brought the sword down slowly, stopping with it held out in front of him. Feeling the energy of his spirit pass into the training sword, the rings shook slightly, then one at a time separated from the guard and hovered up along the blade as if by magic, until they were evenly spaced apart from one another.
“See that old man,” Storm felt his pride swell. “Told ya I could do it.”
Exhaling in one steady movement, he brought the blade down, carefully doing his best to control the weight. Inhaling as he lifted it once again, Storm continued, each slash a perfect balance of breath and movement.
As the shades passed, Storm’s flow with the sword became more and more fluid. The sun rose higher into the sky, causing beads of sweat to streak down his body. And as his steady movement became more controlled, the speed of his swings began to increase, never sacrificing his form. With each slash, the leaves of the tree began to ripple in his wake, and the dirt at his feet began to swirl and twist as if taking on the essence of the wind itself.
“Nine-ninety-four,” Storm said, hearing the strain of his aching body through his voice.
“Nine-ninety-five,” he continued, the hilt of the sword drenched in sweat.
Closing his eyes, Storm felt a presence from the trees of Neverend. Relaxing his muscles, he could see the aura of someone moving toward him. Over the course of his grandfather’s training, he had learned about the nine senses of the sorians, but one had intrigued him far more than the others. It was the ability to see the energy of living things, their life force, or in the words of his old man— their aura.
At first, Storm could only feel the aura when it was close to him, but as the cycles passed, he began to feel it from further and further distances, until he could sense a crystal fly from almost two hundred paces away. It was a technique that was absolutely necessary for hunting within the dangerous Neverend forest, a place ruled by the age-old law, survival of the fittest.
With his eyes closed, Storm could see and feel the same world, but through a different lens. The aura of living things glowed like flame, much like the one that was approaching from Neverend. Storm opened his eyes and continued his training, just as he felt his old man pass out of the forest.
The old man walked to the Edge, staring across the blank stretch of sky between himself and the little earthen island their cabin sat upon. He watched Storm’s form, following the twirl of each and every leaf lifted by his grandson’s movements. He could feel the weighted rings held in place firmly by Storm’s spiritual pressure, and the force with which the boy’s motion stirred them. A thin smile curled his lip as he lifted off the ground, and floated across the sky towards their island.
“Nine-ninety-eight,” Storm said coolly, feeling the presence of the old man touch down nearby. He focused harder, knowing that his grandfather always observed the little things in everything. He could pick out poor technique by the simple sound of it, and he had an uncanny knack for feeling the tension of someone who was pained by fatigue, whether it be physical, mental or spiritual.
“Nine-ninety-nine,” Storm said, feeling his goal nearly reached.
The old man stood and watched, saying nothing. His body was lean and muscled, the stature of one who had trained his entire life. His face was expressionless yet soft, and though it might have been hard to see at a glance, he had pride in his grandson’s determination. In one of his hands, he held a bundle of firewood, and slung over one of his shoulders was a long metal box, rectangular in shape; the length of it reaching nearly all the way to his feet.
“One thousand!” Storm said triumphantly, feeling a smile tug at the corners of his lips. Taking a few deep breaths, he lifted the sword and rested it against his shoulder.
He took in the sight of the old man, with his long black hair and thick beard. Around his waist, he wore a once crimson sash, torn and discolored from cycles of use. Beneath his faded cloak, Storm could see the many tattoos that littered the left side of the old man’s chest.
“You lost your focus there for a second, Storm,” Ronin said, placing the bundle of firewood on the ground. “But not bad, for a kid.”
Storm ignored him and walked over to the metal rod in the ground, taking off each of the rings and placing them back where they belonged. He tried to appear nonchalant as he lifted them off the sword, but truth be told, he could hardly lift them. Gently resting the training sword back against the tree, he reached up and pulled his jacket down from the branch.
Storm turned around to see the old man repositioning the bundle of firewood next to the cabin. His eyes caught sight of the metal box slung over his shoulder, and for a brief moment, Storm questioned what it could be. The old man hardly ever brought anything back from the town other than wine.
“I didn’t lose my focus, Ronin,” Storm finally said. “I was just noticing the difference in the presence of the area. Didn’t you say that swordsmen should not only be focused, but aware?”
Ronin held back a smile. “I suppose I’ve said something of the sort before.” He looked up at the placement of the sun, wiping a few beads of sweat from his forehead. “Where’s your brother? It’s past noon.”
Storm rolled his eyes. “Where do you think he is?”
“Why am I not surprised . . .” Ronin mumbled something else that Storm couldn’t discern.
Storm walked over to the backside of the cabin where two large leather waterskins hung from the side of the wall. The top of each waterskin was carefully attached to bamboo pipes that ran inside the cabin. Connecting to each one was a little wooden fountain head with a lever for turning on, or off. Hanging his jacket on a hook to the left of them, Storm twisted one of the levers and felt a rush of cold water run onto his hands. Splashing his face, Storm placed his hands back under, but the runout of water had slowed to a drip. Sighing, Storm tried the second waterskin.
“Oi, we’re out of water again,” Storm called out.
Ronin turned to see Storm walking around the corner. His hair was wet and hanging down in front of his eyes. He stood shirtless with a look of irritation on his face.
Ronin shrugged. “Go and wake up your brother then. You two will have to get going if you’re to return with water by nightfall. And judging by the time, you won’t be able to hike all the way to Senyria Lake. You’ll have to do it the hard way.” He did not succeed in holding back a grin.
Storm pursed his lips. “You know I’ve been training since dawn, right?”
Ronin carefully placed the long metal box down on the ground. “That was your choice, was it not?”
“I mean, yeah,” said Storm, “but you said our final swordsmanship test is in a week, so I figured you would expect us to be training as hard as we could.”
Ronin nodded, his head still turned away. “And we also agreed that it is both of your responsibilities to get water whenever we need it, or has my memory withered?”
“It just might have at your age,” Storm muttered.
Ronin looked up. “Hmm, what was that?”
“Never mind.” His eyes glanced back to the side of the cabin. “I swear we just did this like a week ago,” Storm stated. “I wonder if there’s a leak or something . . .”
“Are you concerned you won’t be able to make the climb in your fatigued condition?” Ronin asked, the slightest bit of a grin unmasking itself once again. “Because it seems a bit like you’re too tired to do it.”
“Please, gramps, I can do it. And that being said, I’m pretty sure I could still take you on, even in my fatigued condition,” Storm said, meeting Ronin’s gaze. “Maybe we should just do the final test right now?”
Ronin laughed. “Always eager. A trait of the bold, which in turn is a trait of the foolish. Well then, let’s see, shall we? A thousand slashes in what, six shades?” He looked over at the grass beneath the tree. “And you didn’t let the rings slip off the end of the sword either?”
“That’s right,” Storm answered. “A thousand slashes. No slips.”
“Not bad. But when you get to ten thousand in three shades without dropping the rings, you might have a chance at beating me,” Ronin answered. “Maybe.”
“We’ll see about that,” Storm said, feeling irritated.
“We will,” said Ronin, “but not before you wake your brother and fill the waterskins.”
Storm’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded. After walking over to the draped bamboo doorway of the cabin, Storm kneeled and took off his boots. Pushing past the trickling wooden drapes, he walked into their little home.
The remnants of a fire burned softly in a stone fireplace. There was a single wooden table, low enough that the three of them could sit on the ground and eat, or read. Hanging from the ceiling was a hammock built of woven grass and rope. Just above the hammock was a little glass doorway in the ceiling that could be used to let fresh air in at night, or to give Ronin easy access to the roof where he liked to sit and drink his wine at sunset.
It wasn’t long before Storm was staring down at his brother. His arms and legs were sprawled out at his sides, his whitish silver hair disheveled and messy. His bed, like Storm’s, was a woven pad of grass that he could roll up at his leisure. It was placed just before the fire, directly next to his own. Caim’s wool blanket was halfway across the room, and he was snoring with all the peace of a chibeara in hibernation.
“Oi, Caim—” Storm tried, but there was no answer.
“Caim—” Storm said a second time, but again, there was no answer.
“Caim, wake up. We have to go get water, and it’s already past noon. At this rate, we might not even make it back by dark.”
No answer. Just pleasant, undisturbed snoring. Letting out a sigh, Storm walked out of the cabin and returned a few minutes later. In his hand, he held a cup full of the last bit of water from the waterskins.
SPLASH!
Caim arose in a flurry. Instantly, he was on his feet, looking around for who the culprit was.
“What the heck, Storm!?” Caim yelled. “What was that for!?” His eyes were always bluest when his emotions were high. He was still wearing his clothes from the day before, a long white vest and dark gray breeches. Storm looked down at Caim’s feet to find him wearing only one of his sandals.
Well, at least, he got something off before he fell asleep, Storm thought.
“Caim, get ready. We have to get more water before nightfall, and it’s already past noon. Both of the waterskins are empty, so we both have to go. We don’t have time to do the hike to Senyria either.”
Caim’s eyes went from sharp to bright and joyous. “We get to climb today? It’s about time!” Caim eagerly began searching the room for his missing sandal. “I’ve been drinking as much water as possible so that we can climb again, and today’s the day! What a great day . . .” he began in a terrible singing voice.
Storm’s eyes narrowed at his brother’s enthusiasm. “Seriously, I hate you right now. Why would you drink all the water—” Storm shook his head. “You know what? Just get up. We leave within a quarter of the shade. There’s a few loaves of bread on the table if you want them, but we don’t have that much food so try not to eat it all. Otherwise, we’ll have to add hunting to our chore list.”
Storm turned around to leave, then stopped. “And don’t eat it all just so we have to go hunting either.” He went to move, then stopped again. “I’m serious, Caim.” Then he left the cabin.
Caim waved his brother away, finding his sandal sitting on top of a bookshelf. “Now how’d you go and get up there?”
Not long after, Caim walked outside the cabin, stretching his arms up and taking in the beauty of the sky. He found Storm lifting one of the waterskins onto his back, strapping it to himself like a backpack.
Storm pointed at the other one laying on the ground and motioned to it. “Let’s go already.”
Caim walked over to his designated waterskin and noticed a sheathed machete leaning against the cabin wall. He grabbed the machete and tossed it to Storm who nodded and clipped it onto his belt.
“And kick off your sandals or you might lose them,” Storm added, choosing to go barefoot as well.
Soon enough, Caim and Storm were standing at the precipice of their island, staring across the way at the Edge of Falia. The two of them leapt across the hundred-foot gap with ease, landing softly on the other side. Walking along the side of the cliff, the boys soon found two coiled bundles of rope attached to anchors in the cliff. They each tied themselves in by the waist.
“I’m going to try the hardest route today,” Caim said, punching his fist into his hand. “Without the safety rope. Today’s the day I become the best climber in all of Soria!”
Storm looked up at Caim, an uneasy feeling of hesitation coming over him, before looking over the edge of the cliff, with his eyes falling on nothing but open sky. Slowly clenching his fist, he could still feel the acute muscle soreness throughout both of his arms.
“Let’s feel it out when we’re down there,” said Storm. “Sometimes, the temperature of the rock isn’t right for that kind of climb. Plus, you’ve been sleeping all morning, and I’ve already finished a thousand weighted slashes. I’m kind of burnt out.”
Caim laughed. “So, what you’re saying is that you don’t think you can do it? It’s going to be a sad day for you when I finish the unclimbable line and you climb the easy one. Guess that’ll prove who’s stronger after all this time.”
Storm felt his competitive nature warming his blood. “But that also means, if I finish the climb after doing sword training all morning, that I’m stronger than you.”
“Nope. Doesn’t mean that,” said Caim, stretching down and touching his toes. “I could do that, too. Besides, it’s not the same if you do it with the safety rope.”
“Whatever,” said Storm. “Are we doing this or not?”
Caim and Storm grabbed the ends of each of their own ropes. With a careful nod to one another, they walked back about twenty paces from the cliff before stopping and tying the rope around their waists.
“All right, Caim, let’s—” Storm started, but Caim was already running. Storm watched as Caim leapt off the cliff with a cry and fell past his line of sight. Storm took a few steady breaths, feeling the sweat beading up in his palms. Shaking away his fear of the six-hundred-foot fall he was about to go through, Storm ran forward and leapt from the edge, arms stretched out wide.
Storm felt his body soaring through the air. Grasping the rope tightly between his fingers, he felt it tug and pull back at him. The air surged around his body as the floating land in the sky grew further and further away. Twisting himself in the air, Storm turned his body back to face the underside of Falia. Exhilaration swept through him, diminishing his fears, and before he knew it, a huge smile had come over his face as he raced downward, the rope swinging him deep under the earthen mass in the sky.
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“Yosha!” Caim screamed as he saw Storm swinging toward him. Caim was holding onto one of the rock features on the underside of the massive overhang, his other hand waving out toward his brother as his swing brought him closer and closer.
Reaching out his hand, Storm knew he had only one chance to grab the rock, or he would swing back off of it, forcing him to climb back up the rope to the top and do it all over again. A crushing mistake to make, to say the least. The rock face grew bigger and bigger before his eyes as he searched for a suitable hold to grab onto. Bracing himself for the stop, Storm held out his free hand and snagged a jutting flake of stone. His feet touched onto the wall momentarily, but then he lost friction and slipped, sending a surge of anxiety through him.
Luckily, his hand did not let go.
Storm hung there for a long moment by one hand, looking down at the fall beneath him. There was only sky and clouds. Reaching up with his second hand, Storm found another proper hold and grabbed it. The rock was a little cold despite the sun, and he knew the moment he touched it that the conditions were perfect for climbing. Tightening the muscles in his stomach, Storm raised his feet and placed them on the wall. Letting out all the air in his lungs, Storm leaned back, straightening his arms and resting the weight on his tendons.
“I’m never going to get tired of doing that,” Caim declared, his smile beaming.
They hung from a steep overhanging cliff, deep beneath the Edge where they had jumped, and they could no longer see their little island at all, or even where they had jumped from.
Storm let one arm hang off the wall as he shook it out, trying to warm up his hands and tendons for the long climb to come. The easy part was finished. Everything would only get harder from there on.
“All right, we gotta be quick,” Storm said, shaking out his other hand. “Once we fill up these skins, it will only be a matter of time until our muscles give out from climbing under so much extra weight.” For what felt like the first time in a lifetime, Caim agreed.
“I’m untying the safety,” said Caim, doing just that. His rope swung away from the cliffs, and from then on, he was on his own. Storm watched the rope swing away, feeling his own anxiety surge at the thought. Not only would Caim be free climbing back up a steep cliff, but he wanted to climb the hardest route possible, while carrying more than three times his weight in water, and without the aid of a safety rope.
“You can keep it if you’re too scared,” said Caim. “But then I’ll win.” He laughed.
Storm glared at his brother before untying his own rope and letting it swing away.
From then on, there was only one way back up.
Don’t fall.
Caim and Storm began steadily downclimbing the rock face. Each move was slow and meticulous, perfect in its execution. As they climbed lower and lower, the first of many great hanging roots came into view. Before long they could see hundreds of massive roots, thicker than trees, reaching out from the underside of Falia.
“When the old man first told me that Falia gets its water from the roots of the Great Tree, I didn’t believe him,” said Storm, eyeing his next move. Caim was a few paces to his side and slightly lower.
“I believe everything grandpa says,” answered Caim. “But even when he told me, I couldn’t really imagine what he was saying until I actually saw it for the first time.”
“Yeah,” said Storm, stopping for a moment. He took in the sight of everything around him. The rock face they were on was fairly steep, somewhere between completely horizontal and straight vertical, with their backs completely exposed to the sky. The hanging roots were gnarled and thick, with several massive leaves growing out from the sides of them. Looking for the closest root, Storm set his eyes on one.
“Come on,” said Storm. “That one isn’t too far.”
The two brothers downclimbed until they were hanging just next to the root. Looking around for somewhere to jam himself into the rock, Storm was able to place his knee behind a big jut of stone. Locking himself in with his knee and counter pressure from his toe, Storm took both of his hands off the rock and shook them out.
“All right,” Storm said to himself. “First things first.”
Caim climbed over to where he was and began taking turns letting each of his arms rest. He watched as Storm pulled off one of the shoulder straps and loosened the top of the waterskin. Holding onto it with one arm, Storm pulled out the machete and cut into the side of the root. As soon as the machete broke through, water began pouring out. Quickly sheathing the machete back to his side, Storm held up the waterskin and waited as it filled with water, taking a few swigs himself as it did.
“I forgot how heavy these things get,” Storm muttered as the waterskin quickly filled. Feeling the strain in his arm as he held it, Storm waited until it was completely full before he pulled on the tightening string and fastened it.
“Caim, come and take this one. This knee bar is solid, so there’s no point in losing it.”
Caim climbed down to Storm’s side and pulled one of his arms out of the straps. Grabbing his own waterskin with his free hand, Caim lifted it up and sunk his teeth into the strap, holding it with his mouth. Nodding to Storm, he reached out and took the full one his brother had been holding.
Slightly wincing under the weight of it, Caim was barely able to slip one of the straps over his shoulder. Just as he reached his free hand back to the rock face, one of his footholds broke, sending a jolt of fear through Storm, who had been watching rather apprehensively.
Hanging on with one arm under the immense weight, Caim carefully placed his foot back on the wall. Grabbing the wall with his other hand, Caim pulled the other strap over his left shoulder. He reached up to the empty waterskin in his mouth and held it out to his brother who was still locked into the knee bar, both his hands hanging idly at his sides.
“Careful,” said Storm, looking at the place where Caim’s foothold had broken. “The old man says most of the rock is trustworthy, but there are some sketchy sections.”
“This is going to be nothing short of awesome,” said Caim, feeling the weight of the waterskin on his back. “I’m going to start climbing back up. You all right from here?” He looked at Storm who simply smiled back at him, waving Caim away.
“I’ll be fine. With a no-hands rest like this, I can take time even after I’ve filled the second skin.”
Caim took a few long, deep breaths as he looked up at the different lines of climbing above him. He hung for the better part of a minute as his eyes scanned the rock face. There were all kinds of routes, and nearly all of them they had climbed, with and without the skins, with the exception of one.
“There it is,” Caim finally said. “That’s the hardest line.”
Storm looked up. Sure enough, it was definitely the hardest climb of the many that ran back up to the Edge. Whereas the route they downclimbed was littered with huge hand holds, good foot placements, and was relatively easy to follow, the line Caim was looking at would push their strength to the brink of their limits. Tiny cracks you could barely get a finger into, footholds no bigger than a fingernail, and even though neither of them would speak of it, the crux of the climb was a devastating move that neither of them had ever done without a rope before.
“Ausangate,” whispered Storm, staring at the climb. “The touching of earth and sky. At least we know it stays true to its name.” He could feel his palms getting clammy just looking at it. “You sure you want to do this? About thirty feet under the crux, the rock around the line becomes desolate, and there’s no downclimbing past that point. There’s only one way up through that one.”
Caim took a few deep breaths, pounded fists with Storm, and began his ascent. For a minute, Storm sat and watched his brother, his own body hanging nearly upside down on the cliff. His brother moved with the subtle grace of water flowing over rock. There was no jagged movement, no misplacement of his hands or feet, only the tranquil, meditative process of breathing and moving. As much as he hated to admit it, Storm knew that Caim had the upper hand in climbing.
Heights had never really been his forte.
Looking around at the empty sky, he pushed the thoughts away.
Storm watched as Caim climbed out of sight before turning his attention back to the task at hand. He carefully loosened the top of the waterskin and felt it fill with water. As it filled, he did not think of the climb to come, nor the fact that he was hanging tens of thousands of feet (or however many feet it truly was) above a place that nobody in their world had ever seen. The place beneath Soria was a mystery, known either as the Darkness, or Mortal Aeryx. He didn’t want to be the first one to explore it either. He focused on keeping his breathing steady as he watched the water fill.
“I wonder how many people have to climb up a thousand-foot cliff every time they need water.” Storm forced a laugh. “We’re the luckiest ones in all of Falia, right, Caim?” He grinned, thinking of his brother and the strange ways in which he thought. Hoisting the heavy waterskin onto his back, Storm looked around for two handholds from which he could unlock his knee. Finding what he was looking for, he set his hands, then placed his right foot carefully into a little crack, and pulled his knee free.
There was a certain tranquility that came with climbing. The art of holding onto rock with the tips of his fingers, and the incredible focus it took to keep his feet on the wall in the hardest of places was something that had earned Storm’s respect. It wasn’t like fighting someone with a sword or hunting a beast in the forest. There was no defeating the rock. It was a part of nature that did not fight back against him. Perhaps, that’s why climbing was so difficult, because it was always a battle with oneself.
This inner battle often brought Storm into a state of meditation. There was no adrenaline rush, and if there was, he knew it was only because something was going wrong. His entire existence rested in the few feet of stone that his hands and feet clung to, and while he climbed, he felt as if he were moving within a blink of time, a place where no part of the outer world could reach him.
Storm did not know how long it was that he climbed before reaching the first good rest point, but by the time he got there and awakened from his momentary trance, all the fatigue that he had been suppressing seemed to hit him on the spot. The weight of the waterskin was easily three times his own bodyweight, which typically would not have been hard for him to climb with, had he been climbing an easier line. But with the added fact that he had trained nearly six shades that morning, he could feel his forearms burning.
Finding a solid hold to rest on, Storm turned and looked out over the sky. He could barely see the tip of their island above him, and he guessed that he had climbed a good part of the distance to the top. The sun was already in her descent toward the horizon, and he knew that if he didn’t pick up the pace, he would be forced to climb in the dark. It was an unsettling thought, to say the very least.
But survival had taught him better than to let the mind take over.
Fear was a necessary aspect of survival. But panic? Well, that was fatal.
After taking a few minutes to rest each of his arms, Storm began climbing up a thin finger crack. His fingers began to bleed from the sharpness of the stone, but the pain could hardly be felt. The more he climbed, the more his body adapted to what he was putting it through. Although the crack was maybe an inch wide, he could jam his fingers into it in such a way that he wasn’t using his muscles to hold up his body. Each solid finger jam locked his hand into a position that only he could get out of. It was raw commitment at its finest, and not for the weak of heart. He knew, first and foremost, that the climb was not possible if he relied only on his muscle. The only way to get through it was with pure, flawless technique, and unwavering mental fortitude.
As he climbed on, Storm began to notice the rock becoming more and more blank. The line of tiny holds above him became increasingly less apparent, and he knew that he was approaching the crux of the climb. Focusing on the intense burn of his forearms and the numbness of his fingers, he reached for a tiny two-finger pocket and felt it snap off the wall. His stomach leaped into his chest as both his feet cut off in suit. Feeling one of his last four fingers slip off, Storm felt the first touch of panic.
Hanging off the overhang by three weakening fingers, thoughts of falling rushed into Storm’s mind with all the force of a broken dam. Throwing his other hand up in desperation, he missed the hold, and his body began to swing. The weight of the waterskin seemed to grow tenfold under the pressure, and Storm knew that if he didn’t calm down, he would surely fall. The skies below had never looked so terrifying in all his life.
Trying to steady his swing, Storm closed his eyes and poured all of his might into focused breathing. Breath would always be their light in the dark, no matter how grim the situation. At least, that was what their grandfather always told them. Feeling his clarity slowly returning, he exhaled and prepared himself.
Storm knew that because of the tininess of the hold he needed to grab, he could not dynamically swing up to it. His accuracy would be too poor, and if he missed one more time, he would likely not have the strength to recover for a third attempt.
Finding his resolve, Storm twisted his hips and was able to get the tip of his right foot on the wall. Pushing into the spec of a foothold with everything he had, Storm reached up with his free hand before realizing that the hold he was going for was only big enough for a single finger. Sinking his middle finger into it, he stabilized his body, and carefully placed his left foot back on the wall.
At that point, all thoughts vanished from Storm’s mind. His body was on the brink of exhaustion, and even if he could think, he could not have fathomed how he continued to climb. One grueling move at a time, and accompanied by nothing but breath, Storm crawled up the face until one of his hands grasped what felt like the most beautiful chunk of rock he had ever touched, and he nearly choked back his tears.
Relaxing as much as he could, Storm shook out his left arm, but no matter how long he rested it, the strength of holding up all his weight from earlier could not be recovered. If it had been anything other than his strong arm, his left, he would have likely fallen.
The blood on his fingers and hands had dried, and for the first time since he had started climbing, he felt the wind comb through his hair. It was cool, and felt like dusk. Turning around slowly, Storm could see the underside of his island, about two hundred feet above, but it did not console him. Beyond his floating home, he could see the sun sinking into the last layer of colored clouds on the horizon, and the light with which he climbed would soon be diminished.
Anxiety began to flow into him. Why had the old man told him to climb down and get water when he knew he had been training all morning? Why had Caim wanted to do the hardest line on the day he was most worn out, and especially without the safety rope? He found himself clenching his teeth, cursing both the old man and his brother for leading him to this cruel, painful place.
He screamed at the top of his lungs, trying his best to relieve himself of the pressure. But the anger towards Caim and his grandfather did not go away, it only seemed to get worse. Everything was building, including his doubt—
“Stop,” he said suddenly, his voice pulling him back to reality. “This isn’t anyone’s fault but your own, Storm. You chose this line. You chose to compete with Caim, even though you were tired, and now you’re trying to blame everyone else for your own weakness.”
Storm let out a breath. “My weakness . . .” he muttered. “No,” he said angrily. “I refuse to be weak. I refuse to be anything other than strong!” But no matter how hard he tried to boost his own confidence with his words, he knew they were lies. He had never felt weaker in his life, and the realization crushed his spirit.
“Oi!!!!” A scream echoed across the sky, lifting Storm’s eyes.
“Oi!! Storm!!!” It was the voice of his brother, screaming out from above.
“You’re a beast!” Caim roared. “I can’t believe you’re doing that after training all morning! I’m so tired I can barely move, but I made it, and now we’re all waiting for you! You can do it!!!”
Storm felt the words of his brother light a flame in his heart. The waterskin on his back suddenly felt lighter, and he found himself faintly smiling. For a second, he had forgotten what it felt like to be truly pushed to his limit. It was a terrifying place, but one that he knew he had survived before. Pushing off his feet to the next hold, Storm continued climbing, ignoring the pain that was screaming throughout him.
As the last bits of light were shedding off the rock face, Storm came upon the crux. Looking up at it, he had never been so intimidated by a climbing move in his life. He had come to two decent hand holds with a high right foot, but the next hold was nearly two body lengths above him. It was absurdly dynamic, the type of move that would involve a leap of faith from one hold to the next. It would be a test of everything he had. Commitment. Strength. Precision. Even the tiniest bit of hesitation would result in a horrifying fall.
Everything would have to be perfect. He ran through the move over and over in his head, mentally practicing for his one determining moment. The distinct press of his right foot, then the hard pull of both his arms, and finally the jump. Taking one last chance to shake out of each of his arms, he knew that even if he made the leap, the movement itself would cost his strength dearly. If he stuck it, the end of the climb would be nothing but a final scramble to the summit.
“Never give up hope,” he whispered, then took his last deep breath.
Forcing all his focus into the tip of his right toe, Storm began to rock himself in a smooth circular motion. Feeling the moment suddenly upon him, Storm cried out at the top of his lungs, wrenching up off his toes until he felt himself soaring through the air. His entire body was off the wall, but he painfully realized that he hadn’t jumped far enough to get both hands on the hold.
Reaching up with everything, Storm grasped the jut of rock with only three of his fingers. Everything in his body tried to force him to let go, but he would not. He screamed as his legs swung out from beneath him until he was completely horizontal in the air. He could feel his fingers slipping, and at the peak of his swing, he repositioned them in a split-second move that allowed him to get his full grip on the rock.
Before he knew it, Storm’s feet had swung back to the wall, and his left hand matched his right. His breathing was calm, and he blinked a couple times before the success of the move finally struck him.
Leaning back on his arms, Storm roared up to the darkening skies. Feeling the strength of his voice fueling his drive, Storm made his way into the last vertical crack that would lead to the summit. It wasn’t long before the sun had completely set, his eyes no longer a factor in helping him. Straining to see, but relying mostly on instinct, Storm inched his way up the crack one move at a time, until he could no longer distinguish the fact that time was passing at all. The crack began to widen as he got higher, a little at first, but it was a world of difference.
What felt like an eternity later, Storm felt his weary hand reach up and grasp the top of the cliff. The rock was still warm from the sunset, and nothing could have been more comforting. With the utmost care, Storm placed his left foot on the last good hold beneath him and swung his right foot over the top of the cliff. Digging his heel into solid rock, Storm mantled his body up and onto the ledge where he immediately collapsed, breathing heavily. Rolling out of the straps of the waterskin, Storm could only feel the weight of his smile.
Without any thought of his ascent, Storm laid there on the edge and closed his eyes. He had no idea how much time passed before he felt someone gently shaking his shoulder.
Wearily opening his eyes, Storm looked up at Caim, who had a look of pure admiration upon his face. Caim kneeled down next to him and waited as Storm continued to lie there, breathing heavily. When his lungs finally calmed, Storm stirred and sat up.
“That’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do,” Caim said, looking out over the sky.
Storm smirked and let out a laugh. “You’re telling me.”
Caim reached out his bloody hand. “Here, I can take the waterskin back. You look like death.” But Storm shook his head and looked over at their cabin. “It’s all right. I want to see this through to the end.”
He reached down and re-strapped the waterskin to his back. Tapping his toes on the ground and feeling out his legs, Storm judged the distance of the jump and the weight of his fatigue. Bracing himself with a steady breath, he took a few steps before leaping across the sky and landing on their island.
Not too far from the tree, Ronin had built a fire and was sitting with his eyes closed next to it. Storm said nothing as he walked around the side of the cabin and reattached the waterskin to its rightful place. Twisting on the water, he soaked his hair and upper body, feeling nothing but gratitude for being alive. Coming back around the corner, he saw Caim sitting down next to Ronin. Tied to a spit above the fire was a huge slab of meat, roasting pleasantly.
“Caim—” Storm said, throwing on his jacket. “Don’t drink all the water this time. I don’t know how long it’s going to be before I recover enough to do that again. Maybe not ever.” With a sudden feeling of light-headedness, Storm eased himself into a sitting position by the fire. He could feel his hands shaking and tried to calm himself with his breathing.
Caim laughed, and Ronin opened his eyes.
“Oh, you’re awake,” Caim said, looking at his grandfather.
“I’m awake,” said Ronin. He looked at Storm.
“Well done, Storm. How do you feel?”
Storm tried to focus on the question, but could not. Looking down at his hands, he opened them slowly before curling them into fists. Trying to think back on the climb, Storm realized he could hardly remember what had happened. Everything that he had done felt like a dream, or fragments of a dream that had already escaped his memory.
Ronin laughed. “That’s the best answer you could have given me. Let me see your eyes.”
Storm looked up at Ronin, who smiled after a long moment. “Those are the eyes of someone who is truly alive. What you’re feeling right now is a heightened state of being, one that only comes with being pushed to the absolute brink of your limits. You should be proud, both of you. Few go to that place and return from it. It seems you two might just have the strength to foster the Soul of the Swordsman, after all.”
“Really? I mean, it was nothing,” said Storm, feeling the warmth of his grandfather’s words. It was a rare moment to have the old man compliment either of them. He held out his hands before the fire. Nothing felt better.
Ronin watched as the flames danced. “Enjoy this moment, because what you just fought through is not even close to the hardest thing you’ll ever have to do.” He poked one of the logs with his cane, and the fire crackled. Storm looked up nervously at their grandfather, not being able to imagine something harder than what he just did. Was it even possible?
Caim looked at their old man skeptically before his expression changed. “Na, grandpa . . . tell us a story!” Storm pushed away Ronin’s ominous statement and rested his arms behind his head. He savored the heat of the flames, feeling the fire as if for the first time.
“A story,” said Ronin, stroking his beard. “I actually heard quite a good one in town recently, and lucky enough for both of you, it’s about a swordsman.”
Caim’s eyes brightened, and Storm looked up.
Ronin poured himself a cup of wine and took a long drink. “It’s called The Tale of Fenrir.”
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