Helbram stared at the image of his father, the initial ache in his heart fading the longer his eyes rested on him. His father was never a cruel nor cold man, but the warmth that was present in the image’s face was… strange, unfitting for the man that Helbram had grown up with. Familial longing was replaced by caution of the unknown, and he felt his skin grow warm as anger started to boil at the pit of his stomach.
The man raised his hands, “I see this image upsets you. My apologies,” he said, his voice light, ringing with the sounds of vibrating steel.
The image faded from his sight, leaving him alone in the darkness.
“What image would you prefer then?” the voice said, now echoing throughout the void.
“I would have you take no guise,” Helbram said. He took a cursory look around him, unable to discern a source for the voice, “My memories are my own, and I will not have you wear their skin in some attempt to appease me.”
A laugh rang through the darkness, ringing like a bell, “A man of conviction, that I can respect.”
A mote of silver light appeared before Helbram, growing until it took the shape of a humanoid figure. The light faded, leaving behind a figure clad in silver armor. A winged helmet obscured the figure’s head for a moment, but it soon reached up and removed it, revealing the face of a man. Given the man’s features, Helbram could tell that he was a human, but the man’s skin was a stark white, with silver eyes that brimmed with the sheen of silver light. There was a chiseled look to his face, with his sharp, well defined jaw that was quirked from the man’s confident smile. He was tall and broad shouldered, both slightly wider and taller than Helbram himself, which gave him a natural air of intimidation that blended with the raw power that radiated from his body. His armor was of an ancient make, a blend of chainmail and plate to cover his body, yet the runes engraved onto the plate and shape of the armor itself was far curvier than anything he’d seen before, emphasizing the man’s physique as opposed to the usual bulky armor that Helbram himself would wear.
It eventually dawned on him that he had seen the armor before, in the murals that sat above the Sword.
“So what are you, the Sword or the man that wielded it?” Helbram asked.
The man cradled his helmet right above his hip and bowed, “Sadly, my previous master has long passed from this world. Consider this form a gesture of respect to him,” he looked up to Helbram with a kind smile, “and to you.”
Helbram’s eyes narrowed, “I am not sure I am entirely pleased to receive respect that I have not earned.”
The Sword stood upright, “Oh but you have. I have borne witness to many men who have tried to prove their worth to me, and most have been found wanting.”
“Aside from me and two others,” Helbram said.
The silver-clad man nodded, “Yes, how brimming with potential must this age be to have three such worthy individuals,” he stepped towards Helbram, who kept his distance, “but even with such a bounty of strength one must stand above them all, and I believe that you are the one to do it.”
Helbram sighed, “Then why the test? Would it not have been more expedient to have Sophia come speak to me sooner?”
The Sword’s face grew grim, “That, I am afraid, was due to urgency.”
Helbram regarded the silver haired man with a flat expression, “Explain.”
The Sword started to pace, “The murals in my shrine tell the tale of a man that made the ultimate sacrifice to defeat a great evil,” he motioned to himself, “this man, which I am sure you are well aware of, but I am afraid that despite his efforts, that very same evil remains.”
Helbram crossed his arms, “Does this evil have a name?”
“There is no direct translation from the Ancient Tongue, I am afraid, but for the purposes of giving it an identity let us call it Malus, shall we?”
Helbram nodded, but frowned, “If you were aware of its continued existence then why did you not provide warning of it beforehand?”
A sorrowful expression pulled down at The Sword’s silver eyes, “Malus has always been… subtle with its touch. That is how it began, you see. Not as the overwhelming force it eventually was, but as a subtle, insidious entity with a grasp deft enough to escape even my awareness. I had thought it gone… until I felt its corrosive nature once again.”
“Thus the test.”
The pale skinned man gave a brief nod, “Precisely. Even with three worthy candidates, it is vital that I be wielded by one who was both brave enough and competent enough to face the emerging darkness.”
Helbram’s frown deepened, “So you set them off on a test without telling them what the opponent was.”
The Sword regarded him with a blank expression, “It was a test of knowledge in addition to bravery.”
“Yes, which is why you sent a young man who has not had a lick of experience in combat against a Troll,” Helbram’s eyes narrowed, “And an opportunist, waiting until her target was weakened to strike.”
The Sword tilted his head, “What are you insinuating?”
Helbram shrugged, “If you were to choose a weilder that would help you fight off a great evil, I imagine you would have someone of more… experience and prone to self sacrifice in mind.”
“You possess such experience, do you not? And from what I can tell, your purpose for going into those woods was to save, not to slay. Such actions require a certain amount of self sacrifice,” The Sword smiled at him, “Such actions are those of a Hero.”
Helbram’s eye twitched, “Flattery will get you nowhere with me.”
“I merely speak the truth,” the sword explained, “It would be rather pointless of me to show such interest in you if it was a lie, would it not?” he motioned towards his own body, “I have been held in the possession of the finest of heroes, wielded in battles against foes that have matched that same caliber. I know talent when I see it, feel it, and within you I sense that very same potential.”
“Do not speak to me of potential!” Helbram snapped. He let silence settle between them before rubbing his eyes and sighing, “I have spoken enough of it for a lifetime today.”
The Sword looked at him, eyes alight with curiosity, “You are very guarded when it comes to speaking of such things, though the more that I look into your memories the more I can see why…”
Helbram opened his mouth to respond, but as he did he felt his body lurch, like whatever he was standing on was pulled from under him. His vision went white as he stumbled forward, and as it returned the first thing he noticed was that he was staring at his hands.
They were covered in blood.
The pain that flared from his palms told him that it was from wounds of his own, but as he made to move them closer to examine them he found that he could not do so. His hands remained still, trembling as blood trickled down from torn skin and calluses, caking the dirt that covered them in a mess of crusted mud. He made to move them again, but stopped himself when he realized that he was again bearing witness to another memory.
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
One that he did not wish to recall.
He could not see his face, but the size of his hands were the same as they were in the present, possessing a softness to them that had long faded from his touch. He was an adult in this memory, a fact that only confirmed the worst for him.
He was back in the training ring in front of his house. The sky was red with the fading light of the evening sun, draped over the rock that stood in front of him. Thin lines marred its surface, countless scratches that added a shade of paleness to its darkened grain. Scattered around the rock were bits of broken metal, remnants of the swords that had been dashed upon the rock.
He heaved with each breath, eyes still focused upon the rock as his vision blurred from the sweat that fell over his eyes from his brow. He wiped his eyes with his forearm, fleeing a slight sting to them, which he ignored as he knelt down, grasping at the sword that lay at his feet. Its blade was chipped up and down its profile, but still held the vague semblance of a weapon. His hands stung as they wrapped around the handle, blood beading between his fingertips as he gripped the sword with all of his might.
The blade shook as Helbram held it in front of him, slipping into the remnants of a stance that had broken from the fatigue long ago. He tried to keep himself still, but no matter how much he tried to focus the sword continued to tremble. He reared the blade back and roared, slamming the sword into the rock.
It struck stone with a weak grinding sound that sent shivers down his spine, but still he hefted the weapon back up and struck the stone again, leaving another thin scratch across its surface.
Helbram wanted to close his eyes, but the memory did not let him. Instead he could only watch himself hit the rock over and over, feeling each shock that shivered up his hands, feeling the pain in his palms flaring as more of its skin began to tear. Still his memory self continued, striking the stone in a trance, and he could feel each desperate attempt to reach for Ether that was not there… was never there.
The pace of his swings increased, each time the grating of metal against rock cutting deeper and deeper into his mind. All attempts to reach for any Ether that he desired were abandoned, and in a chorus of rage filled yells Helbram kept striking the rock. He saw nothing but his target, felt nothing aside from the increasingly pathetic desire for the stone to yield to his attacks, a desperate attempt to run from a truth that clawed at his back.
The sword was nothing more than twisted metal when the light of the sun had faded, leaving only the pale light of a new moon sky to illuminate his surroundings. He rested his head against the rock, beating it with his bloodied fist. He eventually stopped, letting his hand rest against the stone, shivering from the cold that started to chill the sweat on his skin.
He grit his teeth and stood up, hefting the warped sword into the air with a final cry before bringing it down.
Only for his hands to be stopped as his father caught them.
“Helbram stop!”
But he didn’t, he fought his father’s grip as hard as he could, but it was to no avail. The sword was pulled from his hands with ease and thrown to the side, and when Helbram still made to break from the hold his father grabbed his arms and pinned them at his sides. In his tired state, Helbram could not fight it, and was only able to shake in place.
“Deep breaths son,” his father said, “you need to center yourself.”
“What good does that do?!” Helbram yelled. He fell to his knees, his vision blurring as he felt tears start to pool in his eyes, “What good does any of this do?”
His father looked at him with sad eyes, “Helbram, I -”
“I have tried, and tried, and tried,” Helbram said in a trembling voice, “but still it meant nothing in the end. When the time came to prove myself, it was all for naught. Still was I lacking, still I remain lacking, and no matter what I do it does not matter,” he looked down at his bloodied hands, clenching them until the sting of his torn flesh dulled the aching in his heart, “It will never matter, and try as I might to run from this truth, there is no escaping it. It is hopeless.”
The grip around his arms tightened, “It is not hopeless.”
Helbram looked up, meeting his father’s eyes and seeing the steel behind them.
“It was not for naught,” he said, “your efforts will be recognized, this I swear.”
Helbram’s vision went white, and when it returned, he was back in the void, the Sword still standing in front of him wearing the guise of the hero.
He rubbed his brow, “If you mean to convince me with visions of the past, then that was a poor choice.”
The Sword shook his head, “No, I was merely showing you the source of my understanding. Years of effort, bearing no fruit, no results. While I cannot fathom the frustration that may cause, I know that such things are not easy to deal with.”
Helbram sighed, “Do you now? I suppose that you know what happened after that little embarrassment?” He looked at the Sword, a sad smile pulling at his lips, “My father set out, seeking items, elixirs that could cure my condition. For months at a time would he disappear, marked by new scars, new wounds that told me the danger that he exposed himself to, all for my sake, all while I sat still. Time warped, with days feeling like months and months feeling like days, taking any possible cure from my father, feeling just a small spark of hope when it looked like things could be different,” he snorted, “a habit that I have been unable to shake.”
His jaw clenched, “I grew to hate it. Despite my father’s intentions I could only get angrier with each new failure. I would lash out, curse him for giving me hope only to sink back into despair once more. Yet still he left, still he would try.”
He closed his eyes as his vision blurred.
“One day, when he returned, he collapsed before he could even get through the door. Poison was in his veins, its effects slowed enough by the Ether he possessed to allow him to make his way back home,” he let go of a breathe that he wasn’t aware that he held, “With the aid of my grandfather, he recovered, but it took weeks, and each night the poison would wrack through his body.”
He clenched his fists, “I can still hear his screams, his cries as he felt pains I cannot even begin to fathom. All because his son wanted to be stronger, all because of me.”
Helbram took in a deep breath and sighed, “And so I would relieve my father of that burden. When I confirmed that the worst had passed and that he was on the mend, I left. I would not have my father suffer for my own deficiencies. If I was going to chase a dream that would never come true, then I should be the one to bear all its consequences.”
He looked back at the Sword, “So yes, it had been hard to deal with such frustrations, but for some reason that escapes me, I cannot help but continue on this fruitless endeavor.”
The Sword stepped towards him, “Your efforts have not been wasted.”
Helbram frowned at him, but let the Sword continue.
“It is true, the power that is within you is stagnant, unable to be wielded by yourself,” he explained, “but, that does not mean it has not grown.”
Helbram looked at him with questioning eyes, “Explain.”
“Refer to what I have said before, that you possess the greatest potential of all those I have seen. The power that you have trained, nurtured despite your limitations is merely dormant, waiting for a catalyst to awaken. Fifteen years of effort, your efforts, your father’s efforts, they have not been in vain.”
Before Helbram could object, the Sword grabbed his arm.
Fire lanced through his body, a burning sensation that, for a moment, was intense enough that he felt a chill over his skin for a brief moment. The sensation faded and his body felt… light, almost weightless as gooseflesh trailed down his arms. He felt more… aware of his body. The Sword’s chosen form looked more defined in his eyes, the silver glow in his eyes focused into streaks of silver that danced along his irises, the runes along his armor easier to read, though he still did not know what they meant.
More than that was the awareness of the power that suffused through him. It pulsed with each beat of his heart, a rush of strength that made him tremble the more that he felt it. A sword had appeared in his hands, brimming with a soft blue light that suffused the entire length of the blade. It was Ether… his Ether.
“This is no falsehood,” the Sword said, “this is but a spark of the power that lies within you, the result of your training, your father’s aid, just waiting to be awakened,” he placed his other hand on Helbram’s shoulder, “This is why I say that you possess the most potential, for it is the truth. You just need something to awaken it,” his voice grew soft, “I can be the one to do so.”
Helbram could not look up, the sensation of the power that ran through him entrancing his every sense. He felt his vision blur, but only slightly as he could see through the tears more clearly.
It was there, it was really there.
“Take hold, Helbram,” The Sword said, “Pull me from the tree and awaken the power that lies within, the power that you deserve, that you have earned.”
With those words, the void disappeared, leaving Helbram in front of the tree once again, his hand still on the handle of the Sword. Gone was the sensation of power that ran through him, leaving only a phantom of its traces, a sense of longing left in its wake.
He stared at the blade, its silver glint dull in comparison to the brilliance that was held in the Sword’s previous guise. He felt his hands tremble, the memory of that power fresh in his mind. His grip around the handle tightened, and he could feel the muscles in his arm tense up unconsciously.
It was right there, the key that would awaken his strength.
Fifteen years of effort, all waiting to be stirred from a long slumber.
His arm flexed, he felt the blade start to slide.
The air around him trembled as a wave of emotion washed over him. Sadness, confusion… rage that threatened to pull the very breath from his lungs. He knew this sensation, knew its source.
And it was only confirmed as a roar ripped through the air.