"Come."

The atmosphere paled in an instant. I'm almost certain Orwell's hand on my shoulder was the only thing keeping me from passing out. That or running away.

I looked around.

I wasn't the only one being affected, but I was definitely the one being affected the most. The children were cowering behind their parents, Yu wearing an extremely rare frown, but otherwise fine. But me? I was sweating bullets. My heart was beating through my chest. I was practically hyperventilating. My vision narrowing into tunnel vision. Every fibre of my being was screaming at me to stand up and run the fuck away from this situation. Right now.

Jonglir steeled his grip and swallowed, deeply contemplating his father's words. The scene played out as such for a few tense moments, Jonglir shifting his weight, but nonetheless refusing to step forward. I could almost see the gears shifting in his head.

To live, or to achieve the only thing he's ever wanted?

And then he moved.

It wasn't a step, nor was it a particularly large movement. His foot only extended an inch or so forward.

Rammel's eyes shot open. Anger palpable throughout. Bloody black tendrils of pure, unrelenting, condensed rage shot from his being at a speed faster than the mind could fathom, stopping just a hair's breadth short of Jonglir's foot, curling and whipping at his form. They hissed at his impudence, promising a world of agony and suffering should the boy move but a centimetre forward into their domain. Their twisted tongues licked at the barrier between them and their quarry, each and every tendril telling tales of torture and torment, unashamed of their depraved desires. Rage. Fury. Rampage. Death. Their words tugged at the corner of Rammel's consciousness. Let us go, allow us our fury. Allow us to rip and tear and shred. Allow us to annihilate and destroy, to injur, maim and kill. How beautiful would the world be if you would just let us free?

Rammel's sword remained in the same position it had always been, but to me it looked as if it was placed against Jonglir's throat, ready and willing to behead him at the slightest movement.

I kicked my legs out from under my chair, forgetting they were too short to touch the ground thanks to my young frame. I needed to leave. Now.

Orwell gripped me tighter, bringing me into a hug, but allowing me enough room to keep my eyes on the scene. I blinked. My dry bloodshot eyes thanking me for the respite with a slight reduction in the stinging feeling they had been producing.

Jonglir's foot shot back to it's original position, possibly even further back than it had been. If Rammel's verbal warning was a threat, then the intent Rammel was emitting now was a promise. A promise with zero room for negotiation.

If Jonglir moved, he would die.

Jonglir stared down his father, refusing to break eye contact even though Rammel's gaze was filled with malice. Jonglir's expression cycled rapidly through a multitude of emotions. Anger. Helplessness. Fear. Sorrow. Bewilderment.

With a sigh, he finally settled on dejected acceptance.

"I... I can't." Jonglir whispered. I had assumed it was a figment of my imagination until Rammel answered.

"Speak up boy!" Rammel roared.

"I... I CAN'T! I can't. I can't take a step forward. I can't. I give up. I'll become a fisherman." Jonglir dropped the sword down by his side, the iron blade crashing loudly against the sturdy wooden stage. His knees hit the stage soon after. My heart ached. Though not nearly as hard as Jonglir's, I reckoned. The cries of the boy rang throughout the village, only serving to punctuate the silence.

Rammel sheathed his sword, the tendrils disappearing as soon as they had come, and walked toward his son, scooping him into his arms the same way he would carry Yu everyday.

"Congratulations, boy. You pass."

"Do not go easy on me father. I failed." The boy spoke sporadically, interspersed through sobs.

"I wouldn't dare, young hunter. I will tell you a truth, I lied earlier. This test was not about clashing swords with me." Rammel smiled sweetly towards his son, wiping away his tears with his thumb.

"It... It wasn't? You aren't lying to me?"

"I swear on my ancestors, Jongy. A hunter is not a warrior, son. Our job is not to fight to the death. Never forget that. Our job is to hunt game so that our village may eat. So that it may prosper. I apologise, my son, but it was a lesson you needed to learn dearly. A headstrong hunter can only be a detriment for a village. For what use is a hunter that thirsts for battle? He will only find himself killed, and will only serve to strain the resources of an already poor village." He held his son close, allowing the boy to shed tears, away from the prying eyes of the crowd.

"In failing to meet my challenge, you proved to me that you place your life above your pride. You were prepared to take on a job you hated, so that you could contribute to Angelsrun and her people. You have no idea how proud that makes me, son."

Jonglir drew back, and met eyes with his father. Wiping away his tears for the last time, and hand in hand with his father, he turned, head held high, to meet the watching stares of the villagers.

"I, Rammel, head hunter of Angelsrun, husband to Eruel, son to the late Gilmesh and Frea, and most importantly, Father to Jonglir and Yuili, hereby welcome my son Jonglir to the hunting squad."

"WOOOOOOOO!!!!!" "WELL DONE JONGY!!!!" "THATS MY BROTHER!"

The village erupted in a standing ovation. Shouts, screams, and hollers aplenty, Jonglir took it all in stride. It didn't take long for Yu to bolt up on stage, but to the disappointment of her father who was waiting for her with arms open wide, completely ignored him and instead leaped into Jonglir's embrace, who twirled her around just as Rammel usually would.

"I knew you could do it, Jongy!" Yu was back to her usual self, smiling and jumping around gleefully, as if nothing had happened.

"You okay?"

I released my grip on Orwell, his question waking me from my stupor.

"... Sorry about that." I was gripping him tightly. Tight enough that if it was him doing it to me, my bones would have been ground to dust under his strength. I reached for a table cloth that Orwell offered, wiping my sweat stained face. I needed a bath.

"What in the world was that?" How in god's name did Rammel make me just about piss myself from fifty feet away? And it wasn't even directed at me.

"I assume you're talking about Rammel's Fervour?" Orwell cocked an eye at my question.

"I'm talking about whatever Rammel did that made me want to run for the hills and never come back."

"His Fervour. It is not something you should concern yourself with at such a young age, but as it effects you to such a degree, I presume a small description shouldn't be out of order. Perhaps it may even lay your worries to rest." Orwell pulled my chair parallel to his, giving us a small semblence of privacy amongst the rambunctious party atmosphere.

"Fervour is an ability fostered by years, sometimes even decades, of gruelling and arduous training. It is the condensed essence of our strongest and most principal emotions. Powerful enough that our corporeal sentiment takes on a physical manifestation. It usually takes repeated exposure for one to even be able to perceive it, but I suppose it's not beyond the realm of possibility for you to already be past that stage, considering your history. Rammel has fostered a Fervour of unrelenting rage. I do not blame you for being so affected, there are many who have reacted much worse upon seeing it for the first time. To reach his level, you would have to spend a decade bathing in the emotions of anger, rage, and fury."

Stolen novel; please report.

"He doesn't seem like such an angry guy... "

"You have not known him for long. There was a time when it was Rammel being appointed as an apprentice hunter. He had only worked alongside his father, Gilmesh, for a month when he saw his hero pinned to a tree by a stray arrow. A troupe from a neighbouring village chanced upon our hunting squad, and thought that they could steal our quarry. It was an accident. A malicious, unhonourable, enraging, unnecessary accident. Rammel's mother passed not long after, her heart broken. The hunter that loosed the arrow offered his head in apology to Rammel, but the boy refused. Make another village suffer? Take another families father from them? What was he to do?" 

I think Orwell wanted me to answer that, but nothing I could think of saying seemed to be enough.

"A towering, unrelenting, all-consuming fury, and yet no target to unleash it upon. I hope, Aral, that you never get to learn the depths of an impotent rage such as that. Rammel left the village not long after. Just walked out in the middle of the night. He doesn't talk about that time much, but from what I can gather, he went to live within the Foreboding Forest for ten years. Or maybe he travelled. Regardless, on the tenth anniversary of his fathers death, he walked back into Angelsrun. A changed man. Condensed his Fervour at the tender age of twenty six." Orwell looked over his shoulder to the celebrating Rammel, who was hoisting his son up in the air like one would a trophy.

"He overcame his trauma?" That came out a little more eagerly than I had planned.

"Something like that. Not quite. Condensing your Fervour, it's a bottleneck along the path of Martial Strength. Imagine all the times when you've been bottling up your issues and emotions. It doesn't work. And then something snaps, and they flow out of you. Whether that is you telling a family or a friend, or you having a mental breakdown. At the end of the day, you have actualised your emotions, and now that they are no longer inside of you, you can begin the process of rebuilding. Fervour is like that."

Condensing your Fervour allows you to actualise trauma, and then rebuild from the wreckage once it's out of your system. It allowed Rammel to overcome it to a point where he could not just survive, but thrive and prosper, making a wonderful family of his own out of the charred ruins of his parents senseless deaths.

I looked across the party towards him.

He was shuffling Jonglir's hair with one hand, and carrying the hyperactive Yu in the other. He leaned in for a kiss which was reciprocated sweetly by his wife, Eruel. Granny Momo came over, and from her pose, seemed to be chastising him for threatening Jonglir, at which he awkwardly rubbed his head, apologising with a smile. Granny was just posturing. I've seen Granny Momo mad, and this wasn't one of those times. She likely knew more than anyone else that the Jonglir of a few hours ago was unfit to be a hunter, and if I knew anything about the woman, she might have even masterminded the whole thing.

Was that possible for me? Could I put my past where it was supposed to be. In the past? Or was I too far gone to be saved? If you asked me a year ago, I think the answer wouldn't come as a surprise to you. But lately, I've been feeling a lot better. Not just about myself, but in general. I think I'm beginning to believe I deserve redemption.

"You're smiling." Orwell remarked offhandedly, digging into a succulent piece of meat.

"Yeah... I suppose I am."

"Happy new years, Aral. That makes you, what, fourteen?"

"Twent-Nope. No idea. I have no clue how old I am. But happy new years to you too, Orwell." I nearly came clean there. Don't do that. If only I didn't start speaking like a robot, the ruse would have been perfect. My lack of knowledge regarding my age made Orwell pause slightly, for some reason. Well, I suppose that's something not many people simply forget.

"Well, you're fourteen now. Better get used to it." I don't know what else I expected. Deciding how old I was on his own was a very Orwell way of doing things.

The night lasted long, much later than I had expected, only ending when Relekka's father, Frenenik, had long since drained the villages wine reserves. I supported Orwell back to our cabin, a welcome change, as not a month ago, it was him helping me.

"Say, Orwell." If I had questions, I supposed there's no better time to ask than when he's piss drunk.

"Whatz it?" I guess I'll take that as an acknowledgement of my question? Drunk people... Not a memory from earth I particularly miss.

"Can I learn to condense Fervour?"

"Naw." Short and to the point. Exquisite. Also happening to lack any meaningful detail.

"Why not?"

"Fervour is the culmination of a long 'an arduous trek on the path of Marshall prowess. Martel. Marshel. Martial. Ye, that's the one. A long and arduous trek on the path of Martial prowess." Fourth time's the charm, eh. "The mind 'an the body are different, but they supplement one another. The stronger the body, the stronger the mind. The stronger the mind, the stronger the body. Such is life. To try and condense Fervour with a body as weak as yours? You're just askin' to be turned into a vegetable. Like... Aralmann soup. Hahahaha." That was a joke? And a good enough one to warrant him stumbling out of laughter? To each their own I suppose.

"... Then teach me to fight. Make me strong. Strong enough to handle it, like Rammel." I'm surprised something so selfish came out of my mouth. I was expecting a refusal, but the attraction of having an opportunity for an emotional cleansing was too good to give up. If I could have one selfish request in my life, this would be it.

"Go and learn from Rammel. He's the head hunter. I'll put in a good word for you."

"I don't want to learn from Rammel, I want to learn from you."

"Is that the limit to your ambition? To only become strong enough to handle your Fervour?"

"It's important to me, Orwell."

"You think you are the only one to strive for Fervour? That you are the only one with a past you wish buried? I will not teach one who only strives for Fervour. Not only because it would end in your almost certain demise, but because Fervour is not something that can be achieved with such half hearted resolve." Orwell wiggled his way out of my grasp, clapping himself on the cheek, I assume to try and sober himself up.

"Tell me, right now, Aralmann, why you wish to be strong. do not think. Just say it."

Why? Imagine if Rammel was an enemy. He could beat the fight out of me without even drawing his sword. Why else would I want to learn to fight? So that I could survive.

"So that I can be strong enough to survive."

"Liar." His reply was swift.

"You think yourself a good liar, but I've been lied to my entire life. You pale in comparison. Don't ever think you are smart enough to lie to me, boy. I've watched over you from the days when you were a battered and broken half-corpse, ready to keel over and die at any minute. You said it yourself, you tried to take your own life. I've seen many emotions flicker through your eyes, but survival was never one of them."

"I-"

"The hunting squad is going on a commemorative trip the day after tomorrow. Jonglir's inauguration hunt. Go along with them. Sometimes one can only see the truth when they exit their comfort zone. I'll ask you once more after you return. If you return. But know this, lie to me again, and you can get out of this house. I won't tolerate a liar under my roof."

I tried to argue, but Orwell had already entered his room, shutting the door behind him. I walked toward the door but his snores were already reverberating loudly throughout the house.

Well, I guess I'm going hunting.