Azrael woke around dawn, his body covered in a motley mix of purple, blue, yellow and green splotches.

A better man might have accepted them for what they were – lessons. Azrael was not that man and despite accepting that he had learnt a lot and Mors had much more to teach him, he resented each bruise. Still, he knew better than to try and fight the man again. It wasn’t something he wanted and ultimately it would bring nothing.

Last night, after a few more rounds of training, followed by far longer rest periods, he had spoken to Mors. He had enquired about this ‘prison’. Though after the discussion Azrael had come to realise that prison wasn’t the right word to describe the place.

It was only a prison for Mors. Under special circumstances other people could enter and exit this realm, this pocket dimension. In so far, exile was a better word to describe the place. While others could pass through the dimensional path that opened once every full moon Mors could not, forever banished to the mountain top.

Azrael sighed and settled into a lotus position, preparing to enter [Meditation]. Mors had been right, whatever he had been, he wasn’t now. And now was the only time that mattered.

Now was the time to explore his limits.

Now was the time to learn.

Now was the time to grow stronger.

Sinking into [Meditation] Azrael let his blood carry his consciousness through his body.

His heart beat, a steady drum. His blood flowed, carrying power and infused with mana. He took in everything he felt. His muscles, his bruises, his bones. All of it was him. Then, he sunk deeper, falling into the space of his soul.

Here the crystal spires that defined him lanced into the sky, defiant, proud. A single crystal tower held aloft a black hole, a dark gate, to the void.

Below his ever-shifting soul mist was tinged gold, the colour of sunrise on clouds. It was the same colour as his mana, the same colour as his eyes. Currently it was still only a pale gold, but the colour had been growing in definition depth and he had no doubt that it would continue to do so.

Then, there were darker streaks – colourless wisps of void that appeared and disappeared in the streaming billows of soul mist. They filled him with feelings of dread and foreboding, but also exhilaration and power.

Lastly, he let his focus turn to the guest, his co-host. The Beast slunk out from behind one of the skill crystals on canine paws, its coat of midnight made more sinister by the contrast to the golden soul mist.

They watched each other and he crouched down before it, holding out a hand. It watched him silently, appraisingly. He could see its hunger, its need for destruction and he shivered. Both of those feelings were demons that he’d tried to bury. Yet, here he was trying to reconcile with the embodiment of both. He recognised that there was more there though, more than simply the embodiment of destruction manifest.

The Beast took a step forward and he flinched involuntarily. In that moment of weakness and hesitation it leapt forward, its jaws of pointy obsidian closing in on him.

Azrael’s hands came up to protect his neck, only to find himself gasp at the pain that accompanied suddenly moving his real body. He was drenched in his own sweat, and his heart rate had accelerated far beyond its normal rate.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Taking a few minutes to calm himself down Azrael felt himself tremble, though he was unsure whether it was from exertion or fear. The memory of the Beast’s maw closing in on his neck… an involuntary shudder ran through his body.

How did people face their own demons? It was terrifying, as if a single wrong move could send him plummeting off a cliff and into the eternal abyss. What was worse than being simply afraid was that he was afraid of himself, afraid of what he could become, what he had once allowed himself to become.

Azrael smashed a fist into the ground and forced himself to get up. Though he couldn’t fight himself he could get strong enough to not have to rely on the Beast’s power. He rose and walked to the training field, his daggers in his hands.

Outside on the training grounds he dropped into a combat stance, getting ready for a battle with an imaginary opponent. All of a sudden Mors was there, the stick rapping sharply against Azrael’s wrists.

The pain from the blows forced him to drop his daggers. He turned to glare at his tormentor as his weapons hit the ground.

“Wrong” Mors said.

The stick came down again, hitting him in three different point at seemingly the same time. One hit his left ankle, one behind his right knee and the final strike came down on his shoulder, forcing him lower into the stance.

“Feet apart, knees bent, body down.”

Azrael only grunted from the pain.

“Your footwork is the foundation. Weak footwork means no power, no speed, no stability. Lower your center of gravity, spread your weight.”

Azrael glared at the man and the stick poked him in the cheek.

“Eyes forward”

“…”

“And begin”

To save himself from the promised strikes Azrael began to step through the movements he’d learnt yesterday. The stick still came down though, again and again, landing on old bruises, or creating new ones. At times he messed up, others he fell. Mors was merciless.

“Again”

The stick came down, correcting an arm or leg that was slightly out of place.

“Again”

His body was screaming, covered in sweat, dust and bruises.

“Again”

He could barely stand.

“Again”

He used the last dregs of his strength.

“Again”

He was too tired to glare at the man, losing himself in the steps. That was all it was, one step at a time. One foot in front of the other. He tripped and fell.

“Again”

He struggled to rise, before moving through the pattern once more. It had been beaten into him countless times, almost as natural as breathing. It was a companion in a dusty and unchanging moment of pain that seemed to stretch for eternity. Three more steps, two, one. He finished the last step and fell into the dust.

He rose again, without having to be told. At some point the painful reminders from the stick had stopped, though his muscles brought him far more agony.

He took the first step forward again, how many times he’d done this step he didn’t know. Who knew how many times they had drawn a breath? It was the same now.

The stick came down again, to gently rest on his chest. This time, instead of pain, it brought sweet words of release.

“Enough”

Azrael collapsed onto the ground, his body sorer than it had ever been, pushed past the limits that he’d thought were possible. His mind itself was also worn thin, stretched beyond patience and reason. If he’d had enough energy he would have cried. As it was, he didn’t even have enough energy to open his status and check new notifications.

Large gentle hands reached down to him and lifted him up. Azrael let his head roll back a bit to look at Mors. There was no sympathy to be found. Instead, there was something far more valuable, something Azrael hadn’t seen directed at him in years, not since his parents.

Pride.

“Up you come” Mors said softly, hoisting Azrael to his feet.

Carefully, and slowly, he led Azrael to a bench outside of his hut, where he seated him. Then, in a practiced motion he pulled off Azrael’s dusty shirt and began to wipe him down with a damp cloth from a water bucket.

“You did well”

It was a simple statement, but it took Azrael back years. To his father picking him up when he’d fallen as a child. To his mother wiping away the sweat on his forehead, when he’d been stuck in bed, weak with fever.

He’d forgotten, or rather he’d never let himself remember. He’d locked it up, hidden it with all the rest of the pain and fears. Like a dam bursting a thousand different memories came flooding back and with them came the tears.

The tears began to roll down his face, first slowly, before increasing to a flowing torrent. Relief, pain, sadness, melancholy, regret. There was so much mixed up in those tears, and for the life of him Azrael couldn’t get them to stop. They simply fell, soaking into the dusty ground.

Inside of him the beast was silent, its anger lost in commemory melancholy.

Mors said nothing and continued to wipe Azrael down with the cloth.