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Wyatt Graves

As consciousness seeps back into my being, my eyelids flutter open, and I find myself lying on a cot in the dimly lit infirmary of the fort. Gas lamps line the wall as men line the cots beside me. The lingering taste of blood coats my mouth, and a throbbing pain pulses through my head. As my senses gradually sharpen, I remember the thunderous chaos of the battle outside, the clashing of swords, the exploding guns, and the deafening roar of cannons.

A medic, chest adorned with the typical red cross, tends to a man several cots down in. As they do so, they twist the handle on the lamp, raising the light in the room, allowing me to see some more.

What happened? I was on the precipice of joining the fray, yet here I am, confined within the sterile walls of this infirmary. Confusion and disbelief grip me as I struggle to comprehend how I ended up here. But as I sit up, I see a muscular man, a head lined with kempt gray hair and a body guarded by dense woven fibers, staring at me.

Marshall? What is he---

"You refused to sit out of the battle."

The old man grips his chair and slides it across the stone floor. A grinding sound follows his movement, striking my waking ears. What does he mean I refused not to fight? Of course, I wouldn't want to sit out.

For a moment, I feel anger rise at being knocked out and forced to rest against my will, but it quickly fades as I realize who did it.

"And so, I intervened. You are here to train. And you cannot do that if you spend every moment fighting for the fort. You have done enough struggling against the Pale Lady. You do not need the hardening in a fire as most do. You are a blade forged within the fires of Hell itself. You need only slow, gradual, and grim sharpening."

I can only raise my eyebrows as he reaches down and pulls me to my feet, dragging me without giving me a chance to refuse. I attempt to raise my voice, but he cuts me off, cold and deliberate. My attempts at not being hauled away are useless, even as stone cracks under my force.

"I made a deal with Johnny and will honor it."

As he drags me out of the infirmary, the medics not even questioning him and the blanket that covered me falling off, I see the greater fort.

Soldiers constantly move about as he pulls me along, many of them preparing for battle by loading weapons and artillery. A few sleep with their heads against structures while others take their time to savor meals, replenishing their stores of energy. I wait to ask any questions as Marshall seems to be taking me toward the Pit. After a few feet, he allows me to stand and walk beside him.

And as we stroll, I notice that the din of the semi-distant battle falters. Marshall explains himself as we pass by a section of collapsed wall, two dozen already endeavoring to put it back up.

"The fight this night went smoothly. Somewhat. Inyan and Urau called for reinforcement, but with Johnny, we pushed them back sooner than usual. I must say, your Virgil and Abraham are something special, but that boy who calls himself Bonfire is perfect for war. The walls of flame and gouts of inferno he conjures are unlike any I've ever seen."

Marshall pauses slightly, stepping over a mound of rubble as he moves with an alacrity unbefitting of such an old man. His agility is severely different compared to the weakness he showed to me in that room alone. But I know it is only a front.

"Pure elemental Sigils are rare and hard to come by. Water, ice, and air are the most common, with fire being one of the rarest, primarily because of how self-destructive it is. If he was a higher Sigil... things might very well change around here. Alas, that is not to be. The man is simply too focused on trivial things to make it much further. At least the other boy your age is the opposite. I've never met a man more like Eli Weiss in my whole life. Ingenuity in strides and the determination to use it."

I peer up at him as we near the Pit, wondering where he is going with all this. And the moment we descend the stairs into the training field, he finally reaches the part that matters.

"Your presence on the battlefield will not alter much. A few less may die, but in the end, you are too weak to matter, as are most of your companions. Virgil managed to wound Curan, but he was simply too unsubstantial to deal any lasting damage. Even Tomas is only able to help here or there, and I've never seen a man so close to the leap in my whole life."

Marshall twists at me as we finally enter the sandy arena that is the Pit, and I attempt to defend myself. As I do so, I tread to where he points, a spot opposite him in the sand.

"So what if my help is insignificant? Isn't it better to have me than not have me?"

The Wall simply shakes his head as if disappointed I don't understand.

"It is not. You must think of the bigger picture, boy. If you waste your time needlessly fighting instead of partaking in the training you so desperately need, you will cripple yourself. To become an Angel, simply having an Absolution or two, in your case, is not enough. Proving oneself requires one to reach their very limit and showcase it to the world. Additionally, you, have further requirements that others need not worry about."

He tells me to think of the bigger picture; meanwhile, he kills himself with his Ether usage to hold the fort and save his soldiers. Isn't that hypocritical? I understand what he means about the Angel stuff. After all, he'd know best as one himself. However, telling me not to help my friends fight and protect his soldiers is...

"How can you say that, Marshall? You tell me to think of the bigger picture while actively killing yourself for a plot of stone. Shouldn't we retreat? Isn't it all about survival? Why must we hold here?"

Marshall allows me to finish my spontaneous rant before retorting.

"Hush about my life. If Bent falls, so too do the plains behind it and all the farms therewithin. We cannot retreat, boy. We must hold here. It is the most defensible zone west of Blackreach."

I can't help but huff at his words. I understand that the plains will fall. That is obvious. But... won't they fall anyway if he dies? Is he thinking this through? This all sounds so... stupid. But Marshall isn't dumb. He must know this too, so why is he still here with all his men?

My mouth moves as the Wall raises a clenched fist.

"Why are you still here? The moment you die, so will all those people in those plains behind us."

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

Marshall's eyes scan the ring of the Pit above us before he speaks as if searching for onlookers or bystanders. Perhaps, he's even investigating for spies.

"Indeed."

One word comes out that fills me with relief before he continues. Good. He knows.

"But I must stay at least for another month. Evacuations are in progress, but they are costly and time-consuming. By mid-July, Vallens should be cleared out, and then, I will, along with my men, retreat. Though, I have come across many difficulties in doing so. I believe someone is attempting to slow the evacuation, so it may proceed slower than planned. We are also not the only ones doing similar things. Despite how much his people might hate him, the Silent Scorpion of Bonedunes is retreating into Timberlands to join Eli just as Sylvia from Seaside is joining Maddox in Lawless Lake."

The old man grips his fist tight, air expunged from the impact.

"We are consolidating our forces, and I wish to join Edward in Blackreach or Maddox in his sea. But first, my citizens must be safe. Until they are, I will hold this fort. Too many of my men have families behind us for anything less, nor would I allow a retreat under any circumstances with such risks at stake. So, until I get word that they are safe in Blackreach or Lawless Lake, we fight. I will fight the hordes while you fight me."

I open my mouth to mention what he spoke of last time, his time limit of a few months or so, but as I do, he cuts me off.

"What about your mon--"

"Quiet."

And as he cuts me off, he practically teleports in front of me with his blinding speed, throwing sand in the air and raising a fist toward me. I raise my arm to counter as he abruptly slows to a more manageable pace from the impossible rate of his steps. I know he slows down for me, but man, is it demoralizing.

Yet, I push aside those thoughts as I sidestep, duck, and thrust my arm toward his to move his strike from my head. He misses his punch but strides closer to me, reaching for a grapple. My position is insufficient to avoid his grab, with my foot unsuited for moving backward far enough to counter his speed. And as he does hitches onto me, he whispers into my ear.

"I will die regardless, Wyatt. I am a dead man walking as it is now. Ether alone keeps my heart beating. And gradually, it will build up."

Then, he puts his burly arms around my neck, faking a stranglehold before pushing me away. Marshall allows me to rest only momentarily, my hand rubbing my neck before he shouts at me.

"Again!"

Sighing and attempting to understand his words meant only for me, I meet his dash toward me, swinging a foot at him as he gets close. The older man catches my foot, twists it, and throws me to the ground, following up to put his knee on my back. The pain is minor, but I can't move with the pressure on my spine.

His voice reaches me again, softly and quietly, so only I hear.

"No matter what, I will die. Time is running out. But until I take my last gasp, I will do all I can to ensure there is someone to take my place and lead my men. So, I will fight the hordes until that time come. And you will fight me."

The Wall lets the force on me and returns to his standing position. Grunting, I crawl backward and maneuver myself back to my feet. Marshall says one last sentence as he glances at a watch on his wrist before we finally enter what he calls my training.

"We should have about four hours until the next strike. Until then, we fight. Johnny might wake up soon and join us, but you will train your Ether alone when we are done. You may take any skills from my chamber and learn them, of course, if you fit the requirements."

And as the last word leaves his mouth, he rushes me, removing any chance of the conversation continuing as we fight. My feelings about his death are forced to fall underway to his onslaught as he gives me no time to think, only to react.

The old man refuses to allow me to use Ether, wanting to focus on my physical form. And despite how much I would instead practice Ether than endlessly get my ass beat, I have to agree. There is far more improvement for my unnamed and more ephemeral skills to grow than my named ones.

We engage, our bodies moving with fluidity and precision. My precision and fluidity are from my first Sigil that guides my muscles, and his are from years of dedicated experience. The Wall's strikes come fast and fierce, forcing me to rely on my reflexes and muscle memory. Or, more accurately, the instincts that he is slowly beating into reflex and muscle memory. With every strike, I grow not faster but more efficient in step.

I dodge a flurry of punches, narrowly evading each blow. With lightning speed, I counter with a swift kick, aiming for his midsection. He blocks it effortlessly before throwing me to the sand. We exchange another set of blows, the impact of fists and elbows reverberating through my body. Marshall strikes hard enough to leave bruises but not hard enough to end the battle early. Meanwhile, I retaliate with everything I have.

My senses heighten, attuned to every subtle shift in his stance, every twitch of muscle. I parry his strikes, blocking and evading with estimated precision, precision that gradually turns more certain with every movement. We dance in a deadly choreography, our bodies a symphony of strength and agility. The rhythm of combat pulses through my veins, driving me forward. Back and forth we go, and as I slowly accommodate myself to his speed and force, earning fewer injuries, the old man quickens and adds more power behind each strike.

Sweat beads on my forehead, my heart pounding in my chest. My muscles ache, yet I push through the fatigue, barely dodging the most recent kick that is twice as fast as the ones we started with. That one would probably break a bone.

The battle intensifies, a fierce exchange of blows, grapples, and counters. Most of which ends with me earning another brown spot on my flesh, but some, some I do deflect. However, none I am able to counter. My breath is labored, but my mind doesn't wander toward Ether again. I push myself to the limits, embracing the challenge that lies before me.

As the fight draws on, I can sense the profound growth within me. My reactions sharpen, and my movements become more fluid. I adapt, learning from each interaction and seeking opportunities to exploit. The progress from yesterday is substantial, so much so that I'd wager I could take two of me. Of course, that is given there is no Ether involved.

Time seems to blur as we continue our relentless duel. Seconds, minutes, and even hours pass as if they were the same moment. Nonstop, the action moves, Marshall never allowing me even a second to breathe unopposed. And while it is tough, I can't help but smile.

This is what I would have gotten with Edmund had he lived longer.

But the smile costs me some focus, and I get sucker punched directly in the gut, the force barreling me over as Marshall stands tall. He delivers one of his familiar hits of advice before turning around.

"Don't lose focus in a fight. No matter how long it lasts. Oh, great to see you, Johnny. Do you want to join? I know you still don't have Living Strand down. How about I help you?"

Glancing up as I suck in a breath, trying to ignore the painful bruises all over my body, I see Johnny leaning against the side of the Pit. I don't know how long the man was watching us, but it couldn't have been too long. The Iron Consul nods his head as he looks at his watch.

"Sure. We got an hour or so left. Shouldn't hurt, and I'd never say no to your guidance, sir."

Marshall waves Johnny over as he sets his restrictions just as he did to me. His words stop the gunslinger from tossing his belt of guns to the floor and instead has him pause in confusion.

"First up, you are not allowed to move from the wall. You may only use Ether to affect our battle. And I'm not talking about your Power. Living Strand is all about giving your skills substance and allowing them to last longer with a hundredth of the effort. Do you have any skills that conjure?"

Johnny shakes his head at the question, evidently confused by Marshall. Yet, the older Angel takes the answer in stride, continuing to speak about Ether.

"Hmm... Unfortunate. That means you'll have to develop one. First, though, show me a swirl of your gaseous state."

Again, Johnny follows directions, waving his hand as a minor puff of air shifts the sand beneath his palm. I can visibly see the Steam Strand leave his palm and force itself into the ground. It just seems to be so inefficient that barely anything effect is made despite the effort.

Now, the effort isn't nearly as much as I once had to blow air from my palms or mouth like back in Rustbank, but it is still sloppily inefficient. Anyone can use Ether to move the air as it is one of the most simple applications of Ether, but the force at which they do so is nigh useless. For all without a Sigil that gives some measure of control over wind, moving a pound with Ether is precisely as tricky as making your fist hit with an extra ten pounds of force—just a waste of effort.

Marshall nods to Johnny's display of power. Then, he shows his own as flickers of ethereal flames come from his nose, shocking Johnny and me.

"There are two parts to Living Strand, for Ether only gets more complicated the further you rise. The first is to imbue a belief of your Sigil into your Ether, giving it a kind of life. And the second is to condense your Ether to the next stage, plasma. There are many kinds of plasmic Ether, and my fire is only the most common. Many exist, from lightning to dust to auroras to the sainted mists. All have a unique effect on Ether, and fire simply gives a greater instant effect to its movement, imbuing it with a kind of kick at the start of any skill."

Marshall demonstrates his meaning by doing two things, one where he bursts air from his palm with flickers of flame and one where he doesn't. The one that is merely gaseous Ether leaving his palm moves the sand more than Johnny, but not much more before the wind disperses. But the attempt with the flicker of yellow flames that hold no heat moves a mound of sand, and the airflow lingers for several seconds.

The man then looks at Johnny as he continues.

"That right there is why you likely feel behind compared to other Angels. It takes a long time to learn the first stage, let alone the second, but the enhancement is palpable. A Power and a stable form are not all Angelhood brings. It bestows the ability to transform even the simplest skills into a roaring phenomenon. Now, attempt to use that air of yours, or something alike, to affect our brawl."

Marshall finishes his explanation and dashes toward me, citing the remaining time.

"Shouldn't be too tiring for you, but we only got fifty minutes left until the Pygmies arrive like normal."

With a breath far more stable than before from the slight break, I meet his speed and try to take Marshall down. Even if it's pointless, I still try, as it helps me learn. Plus, I have an ally this time. Though, he is crippled to only use air to blast into the tussle.

I guess we'll have to see how he does.