Sword of Destiny

Two years passed. Two long years of study; repetition; exercise; study; practise; failure; practise; study; and moderate success. His learning of all else had petered to nothing, the occasional foray into his favoured archives. Only the journal of Delfin herself maintained his attentions. But his passion was unquenchable, and the military arts were a way to focus that passion. He was consuming all he could in order to ultimately avoid the beatings. Could this really work? If there was a chance, then it must be worth it. It had to be worth it.

He consumed the theory with burning greed and absorbed the texts with a startling capacity. At first, everything had been new, and with it came stumbling difficulty. But the more he read, the more the pieces fitted together. It was like a great and bloody puzzle, and he was good at puzzles. The pieces slotted together nicely.

But still the beatings continued. He would not reveal his learning until success was assured or else the repercussions could be devastating. It was a challenging mantra to maintain, especially when the Friends only grew more violent. One day. One day.

Solo practical exercises were easily fulfilled in the cavernous and often empty library. Realistic practise with others was, however, harder to come by. After all, Bulge was hardly a suitable sparring partner. And that was really the worst of it; the fact that for all the academic and exercise-based research, he would never know the reality. He had to be sure, had to be utterly certain that he would succeed, or such was the spite of his bullies, he may not come out the other side. And to be certain took time. A lot of time.

He found himself sneaking out at night, watching bar-room brawls, analysing them until he could plan and successfully imagine his resistance. And soon such drunken scraps were not worth the effort. He needed something faster and more refined. He needed to watch the professionals, and so he did.

He found nooks in the crumbling periphery of the Fields; the training grounds of the Royal Guard of Delfinia. There he absorbed the greater challenges. He watched duels and flashing blades, marvelling at impossible skill and dexterity, and he would act along in the shadows, mimicking. At first he imagined winning the fight with his own sword and shield, but eventually he grew beyond that. He could do it with his bare hands. He was quick, and his mind was shrewd and path-rich. He was a match for a master of Delfinia; or at least he was in his imagination. He must surely be a match for a bunch of pitiful bullies. Surely. Was he certain?

“Oi, Jossie.”

Two years had passed, two years of lifting, pumping books, and climbing monkey-like through the library. He could now even scale the walls of the Royal Gallery and had once snuck in to sample the opulence. It left him breathless. He even found maps sprawled over a table, plans for the latest actions against the invaders. He had pawed over that high-end military theory, his curious-side getting the better of him, but his time in that place was short. Maybe one day he would be entitled. Maybe.

“Get here you little girl.”

Was two years enough? Surely it must be. He wasn’t certain, but what did certainty feel like? He had never encountered it before.

“Get―” His training reacted, dancing through his head, and he side-stepped neatly, twisting until Chick stumbled and hit the floor. “―him!”

He turned to the approaching Beef, now twenty-one and still fucking children. He puckered his arse. That reflex would never leave him.

Chick pulled himself from the floor, wiping filth from his face. Beef came up alongside, and the third gang member would be blocking the exit. His brother, Brin, was sniggering in the shadows, as had become usual. He should be angry at his brother, but he wasn’t. His heart pumped and something deep inside him squirmed. It was the same thing that propelled him in his learning and his imaginings. But it was constrained. Something was restrained, and he didn’t know what. He gulped.

It was Bull who stepped forward first. “What’s the matter, little Jossie? Grown some balls?”

He stroked the leather-bound book, another copy, and the cold spread through him. He should start by antagonising the Farmyard Friends, getting them frothy and reckless, but the confidence wasn’t there. What right did he have? He was the lowest scum, little more than a doormat. He shook his head and balled a fist, but it was all useless. All the training in the world was no preparation for reality. This was reality, and it had a permanence to it. He swallowed down a sob.

He placed the cheap copied book on the dusty floor, and squeezed his eyes shut, searching for his learnings. But it was useless. It was all gone, hidden deep in a part of him that only existed in the library. Out here, he was Little Jossie – nothing more. He exhaled audibly in resignation.

“Come on Jossie. Have you grown balls or not?”

“No. No I haven’t.” A tear escaped, and that was a first. But he was not crying because of the bullies. He was crying because he had failed, and he always would. Once on the bottom, always on the bottom. He’d read that somewhere.

A blow to the stomach doubled him over, and he simply fell to the ground. He was the lowest of the low, and he didn’t have the right.

When they’d finished with him, he wished he had been a girl. At least then it would have been remotely natural.

The bullies left him on the ground, laughing and cheering. It was then that his brother slunk out of the shadows and ground the book into the dust of the street, tearing the pages with the action. The darkness came, as it always did, but this time he clung to an idea, repeating it in his head so that he would recall it on the other side.

“Worship the page.” It was something Bulge had taught him.