A fortune needs fashioning, so I race to stitch the seam. The operation tempers my mind in stride. Calling it a dream is asinine enough to illicit opium illusions as a complimentary comparison. A breeze sings past my ears, rhythm keeping close to our pounding feet. Cheers trickle into the discordant cacophony. I need resources and skill to accomplish— The onlookers’ slapping hands mount as we crest the willow's mound, switching pace to accommodate even ground.

We’d reach the Citadel alongside thousands of people fighting for one hundred positions in a Penntry officer program. How can I stand out? Life pumps through me, fueling my body. Could I succeed? My friend Jerduan trembles the ground behind me with his pursuit.

Azure eyes shine out under shoulder-length black hair perpetuating in a messy bun. Jer’s face accommodates a duel between cheekbones and chin that cuts up his face in sharp lines. All the while, an abashedly broken nose lends its charm to the mix. Those features are less appealing when rout-red or in a drench of sweat.

“I’ll— Beat— You— Vesh, ” Jer huffs between puffs.

“Yes, you seem to have it done up quite handily.” 

“Don’t— start— Drev— ald— lick— er,” Jer sputters.

“Did you say Drevald? Nasty business those, only a real problem in the south.”

“Eat— shit— die—” Jer coughs out each word with force enough to shake his whole frame. It is a wonder he is still upright.

 “You have such a melancholy outlook. I don't think it is optimistic to add fuck in there.”

  Indiscernible gargling comes from the tower of relentlessness trying to keep up with me. In our younger years, we were well-matched in most areas. However, as we grew, our proclivities diverged, turning these into exercises of bravado instead of actual conditioning, at least for the inclined party. Braggadocio of such magnitudes places us in this foot race, trampling daisies before their bloom, dislodging fungi, and squashing bugs in our scramble up the mound. Such is life, as my friend Jer now says, ‘Eat, shit, die,’ words to live by.

 “Though I’d love to hear more meta-analyses on the experience of being, I must be going. A lot of things need doing today. I’ll see you later.” 

After my ado, I dig my toes in candidly, peeling far ahead of him before passing the crowd. I don't stop when I reach them. I wave an appreciation of their tending toward my friend’s ego. 

‘Crowd’ is generous, a smattering of children with nothing to do and a few people who, I assume, Jer wanted to impress. Judging from the look on his face as he stumbles the last few steps before falling to the ground, the showing is not his best. 

I don't stop when I reach the edge of the town. Alternating between paces, each until I am ready for the other, pushing my endurance. Some startle, but only at the abruptness of my passing. I don’t stop when I reach the edge of town, cutting through Holia’s backyard and running down the embankment that holds my village aloft. She bakes the best bread I've ever eaten. Here is another reason to stay and to go. It is flaky, but is it the best? 

My cottage overlooks the ridge above. The one story doesn’t have a single shiny surface. Instead, it bears a standard wherein the quality of the repair supersedes the material, though there are still a few memorable marks. I race the sun up the switchback to spot my father gathering tools for the impending labors. The stiffness of the morning distinguishes my exhalations— better get out before the sun. I finally stop at the top of the ridge to catch my breath. My mound is a protruding boulder that makes for a personal oasis. I suspect this is why my father bought the land with the gold he gained outside this life. 

Winter white willows undulate for miles. The smaller ones stay a ways off, while some inevitably grow too close and fuse to reach further for the coalition. My father joins my inhalation of air off waves of black reed grass. Furthermore, wind crashes upon the willows. These Willows keep to their convictions while their drooping canopies relent a sway. Here is a reason to stay, and here is a reason to go. Nostalgia contends preferential contentment. On the other side, there is a prospect of standing in more places, on more mounds, with more beauty.

“Better get out before the sun,” my father repeats his mantra.

“Learned from the best,” I relent.

“How was the race?” He inquires with a proffered hoe.

I glance at my father, who is average height and has a wiry frame like mine. His short black hair curls a sun-dried face. Intricate tattoos stretch the length of his entire body in a lattice of shapes, further defining every muscle. His tattoos stop in a frame around his face, accentuating its texture.

“Might have pushed him too far. I fear he might pay me back in kind.” I laugh the last bit as I accept the tool.

“Well, most say he pays his debts.”

“Most?”

“You hadn't heard?”

“Or I don’t know what you’re referring to?”

“Knowledgeable people are often unhappy.”

“People are unhappy.”

“Right... I heard he is planning on entering the Vying.”

“Oh?”

“Someone might consider that he isn’t going alone.” My father pushes, slowing his work to observe me.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

“You know where I stand on this. I will choose tomorrow,” I refuse, continuing without returning the tension.

“Do you know where you stand? Because the late-night training would surmise your decision-”

“I do.”

“Then explain to me how you expect to accomplish anything?” He shouts, throwing his hoe to the ground.

“I have accomplished something, Father, something good. Whatever I choose. Tell me you doubt my ability to do the right thing regardless.”

“And what will happen once you face a seer? You will not make it to the mines.”

“I will serve my time.”

“Ha. Child— You don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Then tell me. Do you want to talk about this? Then tell me the truth about it, about her-”

“I can’t...”

“We both know that. People are unhappy. Let them pursue what makes them happy.”

“Yes— Well…” my father relents.

“I love you, Father.”

“I love you. I wish I could show you the consequences of your decision.”

“I haven’t made a decision yet.”

“Yes,” he mutters.

We sweat our worries on the field, flipping the soil with fertilizer for plowing furrows. At noon, we break for a lunch of squash with roasted broccoli, sunflower parmesan, and soft pumpernickel rolls. My father maintains a quiet countenance, resigning to an outcome that is looking certain. Later, after finishing, I run into town to meet Jer. The sun recedes the ridge before I can make it to town. 

Lit by the only glow gem, between the chapel and Balduans’s shop, is a patch of dirt trampled often enough by our training that neither Balduan nor the ground are willing to grow anything. The street is clear, except for a child singing a pneumonic device for months. People retire early to enjoy the death of winter with the ones they love. 

“Spart, Yuanz, Bach, Lak, Singh, Wat, Guis,” they call out each in an old tune, “Chev, Baldi, Wall, I think that’s all,” they finish, staring up again at the top as the voice carries from the square.

“I am going to get you, Vesh,” Jer challenges.

“This whole coming on to me thing gets less and less appealing,” I return.

“Are you going to keep moving your mouth or get your ass kicked?”

“Blessed with choices, who are we kidding? I’ll have a plate of each.”

“Your eyes are always bigger.” Jer barks out, tossing me my training swords.

“This is nice. Did you polish it?”

“Shut up and raise your wood lover.”

I erect my wooden rapiers, offering a loose salute as Jer lifts his wooden greatsword for a probing swing. The gesture is a usual start, as we know the other's styles. The salute avoids half the blow as I repel the remainder with a crossed guard. My center twists with the maneuver before my stance solidifies to leverage a darting rapier. Jer lets the momentum of his sword pull him away from my attack. I jump on the shift with several quick stabs. 

Jer isn't easy; he forces the prod aside and steps into my advance. Thoughtfully, he raises an elbow to greet my face as the two are well acquainted. In my staggering retreat, blood spurts from my nose, and swelling tenderizes my left eye. Jer is grinning with a come-hither lash flutter and a wide stance, emphasizing his musculature unnecessarily. I smile, and blood drips down my chin as I laugh. 

Attempting to pull out a committed movement to exploit Jer is like punching a cliff face. Keen on me, his deceptive swing tricks both my swords into thrusting at his chest. Before I can make contact, he flips the momentum of his sword, slamming it into my chest. I am now staring at the darkness of Destructions’ sky as my breath stutters in wheezes.

“You turned on yet?” I grunt.

“I’m not that cheap,” Jer retorts.

We continue for hours, occasionally pausing until our breath rallies and the water is drunk. Jer is a better duelist, controlling the pace while rarely getting struck. We train until the moons are deep within destruction. After finishing, I wipe down my training swords before handing them to him.

“Heads up: my father asked about you.”

“I already got an earful from mine, but thanks.”

“He thinks we will go together.”

“All the more reason to go together,” Jer argues, placing the swords inside before pulling out a large case.

“Is that what I think It is?” I ask, setting down my water, standing up, and dusting off my pants.

“Yeah, the old man and I finally finished them. We had a few setbacks with the hilt, but I think you will like them,” Jer preens, presenting the contents.

Dark metal, in the form of roots, composes the knuckle guards with soft, dark cloth grips. A quillion sits atop a thumb pad, leading into blades as dark as the sky or a reed. The metal's gleam looks ethereal. I almost expect a ripple to mar the crystalline surface as I brush my finger against it, a tool of Creations’ mercy. The metal bites my finger like ice.

“Woah,” I gasp in a moment of sincerity.

“Yeah, they turned out gorgeous. My old man worked harder on yours than mine. Don’t forget to thank him. The mighty Baulduan will not make a fuss and appreciates the thanks.”

“A real teddy bear, your father.” I laugh, picking up both and testing their weight. 

Never before have I felt such balance moving from form to form, sword singing on top of my swing. I received forged blades; my hand enfolds the weight. I dance with the pair as they fuse to my arm. They are utterly perfect and all mine. This reason to stay relinquishes fewer counterpoints. The tools wouldn’t be of use to a farmer.

“Did he let you help with these?” I ask.

“Some of it, forged the guards myself, with his supervision.”

“Do you know what metal this is?” I query, rubbing the blade.

“Nope. Another secret from Beyond the Wall. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Me either,” I whisper, drawn further into the alluring dark metal. “Do you think your dad learned this technique in the northern empire?”

“I wish he would be honest about these things, and we didn't have to guess at it.”

“I know how you feel. It's like I don’t know my father.”

“Why do you think they won't tell us about what happened in the Waste?”

“Likely an attempt to dissuade us from leaving.”

“Could you imagine? Your whole life in Willows Grove?”

“It would be quiet.”

“Boring more like.”

“Is yours finished, too?” I guess, prying my eyes from the sword to see Jer half smile.

“It is; I forged the blade. We used a technique to harden the steel. It’s Creationist's steel.” Jer enthuses, pulling a sheathed sword nearly as tall as himself before gesturing for me to take it.

The weapon is a complete juxtaposition to my own. Simplicity sings a falsetto of pure steel, the pommel with Jer’s house crest, plain hilt, and cross-guard. The ricasso climbs up a fourth of the blade and ends in parrying hooks. The metal gleams brilliantly, appearing to shine with the superiority of its radiance.

“This is— some fine work— Balduan must have been— proud,” I grunt, attempting to resheathe the unwieldy thing.

“His stare lacked disdain, almost tears of pride from him.”

“Impressive.”

“I’m going to miss you if you choose to stay.” 

“It’s been a long time since we've had this dream,” I revere.

“You decided then? You’re going with me?” Jer interrogates, ready to burst.

“Do you think we can make it?”

“Even if neither of us makes it into the officer program,” he reassures.

“Why are you willing to go with me?”

“Hey, you are the one with cold feet. I was already planning on going without you.”

“Maybe to the Citadel, but not further.”

“So you are going?”

“I think I have to go. Who else would keep you in check?” I intone a sarcastic stoicism in league with Balduan himself.

“Hell yeah! We’re going to fuck our way through Grevheim.” Jer laughs, lifting me with depressing ease to twirl me around. 

“Alright— you— let's celebrate when we get to the citadel with our heads intact.” 

“We celebrate when we can.” Jer laughs, pulling a local fermentation from his sack.

“Do you think we will find her?” I ask, taking the first shot before handing it back.

“I think we can do anything we want.”

“Anything?”

“We have come a long way.”

“We still have much further to go.”