William crumpled the parchment in frustration, his latest attempt at illustrating the beauty of Seraford ending in yet another failure. He’d been trying for the entirety of the previous evening to reach some semblance of a flow state while drawing, but it seemed as though he just wasn’t suited to it. It was a sad thing: his heart had been set on this being the medium that would enhance his Blessing. He had been more sure of it than with anything else had had tried.
After his revelation some weeks ago when discussing Blessing enhancements with Brother Albert, it had seemed logical to him to aim for some manner of creative mastery: he often found himself envious of those with innate artistry, and he knew that he could get lost in his thoughts when admiring a scene. It didn’t matter that his initial sketches were of low quality - he had expected no less - it was just that he should have felt some resonance in his mark, according to Brother Albert, if it were working to enhance his Blessing.
He sighed, pocketing the parchment for later disposal, and pulled his legs close to his chest to rest his arms and head on them in defeat. In recent days he had spent his spare time trying a multitude of artistic endeavours: poetry, song writing, creative writing, drawing portraits, and now drawing landscapes. None had produced so much as a tickle in his mark, despite every one giving him a sense of relief and enjoyment. He was certain that this was the right path for him, there was no doubt of that in his mind, he just had to find the right method.
There was one thing left to try, though he was less sure of it than the others: wood carving. The idea had come to him during another visit to the encampment’s chapel, as he observed the carved idol within. Perhaps I could produce something like that, he had thought, something that captures divinity. It seemed harder than his other options, given its three-dimensional nature, and so he had left it for last.
This one, for certain, he thought as he squeezed his knees. He would persist even if that too didn’t work, though - there was bound to be something for him, some perfect fit; all he had to do was keep trying.
In a similar vein to his varied activities to enhance his Blessing, William had also been trying a variety of weapons in his training with Brother Albert. Thankfully, that had gone a lot smoother: the two of them had quickly eliminated a slew of weaponry that didn’t suit his fighting style, and they’d settled on the use of daggers within two training sessions. Since then he’d been improving rapidly.
In Brother Albert’s words, “While the usage of daggers as a primary weapon may come at the cost of reach - among other pitfalls - it meshes well with your hand-to-hand capabilities, and leverages your existing skills incredibly well. Combined with your Blessing, you could prove a formidable opponent.” William had been elated to hear that, and the man’s words served to bolster his determination. He was still riding the high days later.
The thought of the much more productive combat training spurred him on, and he got himself up off of the ground. There wasn’t much time left before his training with Brother Albert was set to begin, as best he knew, and he didn’t want to be late.
William raised a dagger to parry Albert’s strike, and the clash of the metal rang out. He slashed at the priest with the dagger in his off hand; his movement was noticeably sloppier. He had been instructed to prioritise its usage in an effort to equalise his effectiveness, but it was much more difficult in a real fight compared to mindlessly slashing at training dummies.
“Steady your hand, William, and keep your grip firm. You must be intentional,“ Albert said, striking out once again.
The man had been relentless with William’s training, and William himself was no slouch. Not only that, Albert was a veritable font of combat knowledge: the man gave key insights that William tried desperately to commit to memory; it was a level of understanding that could only be gleamed from real, lived experience. With every weapon that had been thrust upon William, or otherwise thrust against him, he was made acutely aware of their pros and cons.
Brother Albert kicked out at William’s feet, making contact and causing the boy to wobble. “Do not disregard a single part of your opponent’s body: a strike can come from anywhere. Were you in real combat, that kick could have sealed your fate.”
The priest’s weapon of choice for the day was some type of spear, and William truly hoped he’d never face a real enemy who wielded one. William was sure that if he were allowed to use his Blessing he would have found a genuine opening, but as it stood the man’s defences were nigh impregnable. He was certain that he’d only got close because the priest had finally deigned to allow it, having by then made the point clear that the weapon was perfect for keeping him at bay.
Another exchange, blocked this time by the spear’s shaft, and Brother Albert countered with a swift punch that William had in no way been expecting. He’d taken a hand away from the spear without notice, much to William’s chagrin. The man was full of these nasty little tricks, and he was not above using them. William wasn’t either, and filed the act away in his mind for later use should an opportunity present itself.
The hit took all that remained of William’s stamina, and he let himself collapse to the ground in an exhausted heap. “I yield, Preceptor,” he managed to get out amid ragged breaths. They’d been training for hours in one way or another, and it was close to dark now; they’d hardly be able to see each other if they kept at it for too much longer. Their sessions had a tendency to overrun as of late, and neither of them seemed to mind. There had been an issue with William missing out on food due to lateness, but Albert had rectified that issue the next day.
“Very well. Excellent work,” Albert replied impassively, putting away his weapon and dusting off his robes. They hadn’t been particularly dirty today - it seemed to be more of a habit, regardless of situation. The man changed subject after he finished, to a sore spot that William knew would surely be agitated at some point during their session, and here it finally was, “Have you made any progress on the enhancement of your Blessing?”
William could feel his hands clench as thoughts of disappointment and frustration coalesced into a dark cloud in his mind. He gave himself a few more moments to catch his breath before replying, “No, Preceptor... My last attempt was unsuccessful, though I still have more options to try.”
“Hm,” Albert replied. The man gave no outward indication of disappointment, as always, but William nevertheless sensed it. “Should this attempt prove constructive, remember what we spoke of: do not use your Blessing, and do not let the resonant feeling disrupt your concentration.“
“Yes, Preceptor.” He was sick of hearing Albert’s words, by now. Hopefully this time they’d be useful. He collected himself and got up to leave, but the priest spoke again, stopping him before he could drag himself back to the encampment.
“I set out for Grantford on the morrow, and will not return for quite some time.” He gestured broadly to their training area for a moment, “It is important that you continue with your training in my absence - I expect to see progress upon my return.”
“I’m not sure I can, Preceptor - my friends tell me that Officer Axton has little involvement with those he does not favour.” He didn’t think that swinging a sword in repetitive drills would count as sufficient training while Brother Albert was gone.
“Indeed,” the priest replied, “and so you will not be rejoining the others; instead, I would have you continue here. Officer Axton has given his permission for you to bring in others from your squad to aid in your training, as you see fit. The man seemed almost too keen to be rid of them.”
This was joyous news - Reynard and Anne had lamented about how they languished under Axton, day after day, and now he could help them out. As they told it, anyone who wasn’t part of Henry’s clique was essentially left to rot, their skills subject to atrophy. Reynard in particular was taking it hard, having actually got some benefit from Axton’s teachings. Anne, it seemed, was just incredibly bored by the whole affair. William beamed with delight at Albert’s words. I can’t wait to tell them!
“Thank you, Preceptor!”
“There is no need for thanks, William. It is simply the only option available to us; were I able, I would have Officer Axton himself conduct your training in my stead.”
Now there’s a horrible thought.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
William had relayed Brother Albert’s words to his friends while they ate, and both had been ecstatic to hear that they could train alongside him. Anne had wrapped him in a hug so tight he thought he might lose his dinner, exclaiming with glee that she finally had something interesting to do. With similar enthusiasm, Reynard had spent the remainder of the meal detailing how they’d alternate sparring, what he and Anne needed to focus on, and how it could be interwoven with William’s own training. William had been shocked at how effortless it seemed for him to come up with such ideas.
They eventually parted ways for the evening, his friends agreeing to meet him in the morning, and William made his way back to his tent with a spring in his step. He was re-energised by time spent in good company, and was looking forward to tomorrow. It would be a shame that Brother Albert would be gone for the foreseeable future; William was growing fond of the man now that he had become accustomed to Albert’s idiosyncrasies. The priest kept him at arm’s length, and William had a sense that they’d never truly be close, but he very much respected the man. Not only that, but he would be forever grateful for the man’s tutelage, and for the opportunity that he had been given.
He slept well and awoke early, feeling refreshed. He gathered the belongings he would need for the day, trying his best not to wake his tent mates. Walter, a particularly irascible older man, stirred in his sleep as William reached over him to reclaim his pocket knife. William wasn’t sure if it was due to their age gap, or perhaps some unstated dislike, but there was no camaraderie to be found within the thin walls of the tent.
Now sufficiently prepared, he took his leave and set out toward the nearby forest edge. He was in need of wood, and where better to get it? He was a little nervous about carving proving as unfruitful as the other activities he had tried, but he did his best not to dwell on it as he made his way over.
There was no fog today, and he had a clear view of the treeline as he approached it; it was clear enough, in fact, that he spotted a small black and white bird flutter onto the branch of a tree to rest beside another like it. Magpies, he thought with excitement. He carried on at a leisurely pace along the edge of the forest, content to simply enjoy the walk and pick something up on the way back, when something caught his attention.
He felt as if the Elwood itself were calling to him from the shallow edge of the forest, drawing his attention to a fallen tree through nothing but its sheer inertness; it captivated his imagination with fanciful images of its potential form once worked by his hand. Before he knew it, he found himself kneeling beside it, enamoured with the particular beauty of a piece of loose wood no bigger than his arm, laden with a veneer of vibrant emerald moss over white bark.
William took a seat, inspecting the wood from every angle and running his fingers along its length to feel the troughs and peaks that his eyes alone could not perceive. He was jolted in surprise by a nearby rustle, and he turned quickly towards the sound: Tibert, body low and eyes gleaming, locked onto the magpies in the tree above. He chuckled as he whispered to the creature, “They might be a bit too high for you, mister.”
The cat stealthily crept over to the tree on which the magpies perched and jumped at the trunk, trying desperately to gain purchase, but he ultimately failed. Tibert fell awkwardly into a pile of detritus in a panic, seemed to have some sort of spasm, and then promptly bolted back towards the camp. William couldn’t help but laugh at the cat’s antics.
Tibert may have been unsuccessful in his hunt, but he did achieve something: he proved to be a great inspiration to William, who now knew exactly what he was going to make. He committed to his first clumsy carve of the wood, almost nicking his finger with the blade, and inspected his handiwork. To the left, next.
William continued this methodical approach: carve, inspect; carve, inspect; carve, inspect; until the movements became almost unconscious. The active fragment of his mind was occupied with the illusory, projecting an image of the desired shape onto the wood in his mind’s eye. He looked over his current work, framed by a lap full of shavings. It was beginning to bear some semblance of a cat, albeit one composed entirely of a hard, ecru wood.
Seeing his piece take shape filled him with confidence, and he carried on with added passion, sculpting Tibert’s form into the chunk of wood. As his knife made contact, he was swiftly, unexpectedly overcome with a peculiar and tranquil sensation. A warm presence blanketed his arm, guiding his movement and adjusting it ever so slightly, improving the cut. Whatever this unseen presence was, it was very clearly emanating from his face, from the mark of his Blessing; of that, there was no doubt in William’s mind.
The feeling startled him, and his hand slipped. The knife embedded itself firmly into Tibert’s wooden body. “Ah, shit!” William’s face went red, and he looked around in a slight panic, hoping nobody had heard his profanity. He tore out his knife, and inspected the damage. The piece was salvageable, by his estimations, though he would have to keep this deep gouge.
It took him another few moments before the realisation dawned on him: I’ve done it! I’ve finally done it! He let himself fall backwards onto the floor, and laughed in triumph. A significant weight had been lifted off of his shoulders, and the feeling was almost euphoric. With this, there were no longer any bottlenecks to his progress, and he could invest his energy fully into training. It’s a shame Brother Albert will not be able to hear of this until his return, he thought, but it didn’t dismay him - this was the perfect opportunity to make up for lost time and truly impress the priest when he got back to Seraford.
William sat once again and calmed himself down, then got to work on finishing his piece. He managed to enter his flow state once again, feeling the resonance of his mark, and he carved away the rest of the morning.
By the time William had finished his creation, the sun was high in the sky - he was late for his training with Anne and Reynard. He knew that his little wooden Tibert was shoddy work, but it still gave him a great deal of pride. It represented much more than just a morning of work; it was the culmination of all of his wasted efforts these past weeks, and was the key to his path forward.
As he jogged toward the training area near the ford, he felt the lingering sensation of the resonance within his mark: a soft, warm fullness that was not too dissimilar to the feeling he often got in his muscles after a sparring session. Similarly to his muscles, there was an innate sense that he should not push further. I should wait until I do this again, he thought, there’s no sense in potentially risking an injury. It wasn’t anything that Brother Albert had mentioned - the man was unusually coy about anything beyond the act of enhancement itself - but it seemed logical that his muscle metaphor would hold true.
His thoughts moved along as he did: from little wooden Tibert, to the real one, and then to Sister Isabella. He had not seen her as of late - Brother Albert’s training was harsh, but the man rarely, if ever, injured William enough to require her services. “Wasted energy,” the man had called it. William had still made an effort to visit her on occasion, sometimes unsuccessfully if she was preoccupied, and they would catch each other up on their day to day happenings. It was a simple thing that warmed his heart, and he couldn’t help but think that he now had an opportunity to return that feeling to her.
William changed course to go through the camp instead, aiming to stop by Sister Isabella’s tent on the way. Unfortunately, she wasn’t present. He took out his knife and carved a small “w” on the underside of the wooden creature, then left little wooden Tibert by her tent door before setting off once more. He took a slower pace now, realising that he’d actually need some energy left over for the training.
As he approached the training area, he heard the telltale sound of metal striking metal. He turned the corner with some confusion, and was greeted with a most bizarre sight: Reynard and Anne were actually sparring, and it even looked like they weren’t holding back for once.
The two lovers continued their bout, clumsily by William’s new standards, until a winner was determined through a most fearsome move: a swift kick to the shin.
“Ow! You can’t just do that every time!” Reynard shouted, ever a sore loser.
“Maybe you should start actually blocking it,” Anne replied sarcastically, ever a sore winner.
There was a palpable tension in the air between the two. There was a beat or two of silence, before Reynard dashed towards Anne. She ran away from him, screaming and giggling as he gave chase, a grin plastered on his face. It didn’t make much sense to William, but he’d seen other couples act this way, so he supposed it must be normal. “He bothering you, miss?” William shouted, startling his friends.
They stopped abruptly, and Reynard laughed as he shouted back cheekily, “About bloody time! Thought you ran off scared!”
William smiled, and moved to meet them. “Not anymore, now that I know your weak spot,” he said, pointing to Reynard’s leg as he walked. The other boy scrunched his face, but it didn’t look as though he was truly angry about it all.
“What kept you, Will?” asked Anne, giving Will a half hug as he finally reached them.
“I finally had a breakthrough with enhancing my Blessing,” he replied proudly.
“Have you really? What did you paint in the end, then?”
His expression dropped a little at her words, but the smile effortlessly came back, stronger than ever, as he responded, “I was ill suited to painting, unfortunately - but I may have found my calling in wood carving!”
“My dad used to do a bit of that,” Reynard added offhandedly. Neither Anne nor William responded to him, and instead kept the conversation flowing between them.
“Well, we’re just glad you got it all sorted. What’s it like?”
“It’s similar to my Blessing, in a way - a deep focus.” He thought for a moment, before clarifying, “There’s something else though, some guiding hand that just makes it... easier.” He shrugged.
“Sounds amazing!” she said, genuine wonder in her voice. “Will you show us what you made?”
“You’ll have to ask Sister Isabella. I gave it to her.”
“Ha! Told you!” Reynard said loudly, pointing at Anne. She grumbled, and flicked him a small coin.
“Hey!” William couldn’t believe what he was seeing, and was a little offended.
“Too predictable Will - it's easy money really,” Reynard replied nonchalantly.
“No more betting on Will and Isabella,” Anne said firmly, as though she wasn’t one of the two people at fault.
“You can’t say that just because you lost!”
“Too late. What you going to do about it?” she taunted, smiling cheekily.
William wasn’t about to watch them run around chasing each other again, and so he clapped his hands to get their attention. “Forget that - let’s get to it, shall we?”
