Four hands worth of time later, a disheveled, sweaty, heaving, and out of breath old man was pressing a hand against the small of his back before he hobbled his way to the point he had started. Once there, his hands fell to press on his knees, catching his breath as his iron gaze caught Marud’s amused little smirk. “Again. *Gasp*. Tomorrow.”
Artorian coughed out the words with an energetic wave of the hand, grabbed his walking stick, then draped his robe over his shoulders before staggering off. “I am going to catch those unbaked little loaves and put them in the oven!”
Marud suppressed a snort at the old man’s ire and persistence. He was fine with this, as it was just a few more measuring sticks to goad the recruits. “Sure, old-timer, come back tomorrow.”
“Ah… ahaha! I did it. I did it!” Marud’s face snapped back to the Elder, who sounded absolutely elated. His fist was shaking in the air. Even though Artorian was wobbly, he was clearly pleased about some sort of accomplishment. What? Had it been a few years since he’d even made it around the perimeter?
“Hah.” The drill instructor didn’t see the Elder again until the next morning came. When the second in command rolled up with a powerful stride, ready to discern which recruits to chastise, he was surprised to actually find Artorian mingling with the crowd of Initiates. In fact, he was joining in their stretches.
“No, a little more down, m’boy. You want to push your leg down as far as it will go while you keep your opposing knee bent. Feel the muscle stretch in the taut leg. That little tremble? That’s what you’re looking for. Remember to stretch after training as well; it’s awful being sore.”
Marud let the instruction slide, and his voice boomed through the mottled line of tents. Half-asleep Initiates scampered, partially dressed, from their resting spots and made their way to the front gate in a hurry. When they were all present, Marud firmly gave them a short speech on preparedness. Only one person had vanished.
“Now where did the old man get off to?” He called out for Artorian, looking around for the old man.
One of the recruits pointed around the bend of the wall. “He started already, sir. Said he was going to get a workout in and catch us before he washed today.”
The instructor threw his hand in the direction of the corner. “Well, get going then! The old man is beating you all in performance! Move, move, move!”
The stampede of feet began in a hurry. That day, they all passed the old man at least thrice before he’d made it back to the front gate. As before, Artorian needed to stop at that point.
Marud couldn't hold back his enjoyment nor his commentary. His gleaming white smile countered his natural darker profile. It was rather delightful to see, artful even. “Ah-ha-hah! What are you doing, landowner? You plan on being here every day to catch my Initiates?”
“Indeed, I will, my boy!” Artorian replied with confidence as he straightened up and did more stretches. “I can’t catch raiders if I can’t even keep up with your lads!”
“Sir. Please. You joke too hard. You… catch raiders?” Marud broke down in hearty, thick laughter. His disbelief mounted with his humor. “I would not let a gentleman such as you leave the safety of the cloister! That is what the Church is for—we protect those who cannot protect themselves.”
The smile on Artorian’s face matched Marud’s but for a different reason. “Well then, I’ll just have to outpace all your Initiates, won’t I! Let me? Pah! I’ll get so fast that you won’t be able to stop me!”
Artorian pressed his fists to his hips and posed with conviction. It only made Marud double over once more, failing to control himself. “Oh. Oh, you are too much! Please. Come. Outpace my recruits. I wish to see this.”
“And. You. Will!” With a stern nod, Artorian was off, swaggering off to the stream. He spoke with the stubborn, self-assured tone of the old man that he was.
Artorian was back the next morning, the next, and the next. What did surprise the seasoned instructor was that not only was the old man succeeding in such strenuous daily activity, but he was improving. His crippled shamble had developed into a smooth jog. His knees no longer bent at odd angles, either. Every day, some incremental change or progress could be seen in the aged man’s posture, breathing pace, or muscle strength. After just one week, what Marud before believed to be a cripple was now doing two successful laps around the cloister. By the second week, he did three. By the fourth, he caught the slowest Initiate.
Marud had a field day that morning. “You let him catch you? What happened to being a proud member of the Choir, recruit? Are you holding out on me? On your team? He caught you! He. Caught. You!”
The recruit was in dismal spirits after that. That evening, however, the young man heard a tapping on his tent. “Excuse me, is this Initiate Que’els’ tent?”
Que pushed the flap open, and his dark features fell even further upon seeing who was waiting for him. Confusion replaced the expression as a skinned rabbit was pushed into his hands. “Eat some extra meat, my boy, and don’t tell the big one I gave it to you. I’m thinking that your growth is slowed because you’re not getting enough meat to eat. Some extra rations in you can only help.”
Before the Initiate could thank the Elder for the gift, he was gone. Artorian was learning how to move annoyingly fast for such an old man. In fact, the next morning, the old man outpaced everyone. Marud held his face in his hand as he watched the farce of a training exercise. The long beard could only handle seven laps, but he finished them before his recruits did—and their current limit was also seven.
When Artorian walked to the stream like an unbending ironwood tree that day, he secretly relished the verbal beating the Initiate squad was suffering through. He was mid-wash when the booming baritone finally ended. Even then it stopped only because the clamor had attracted Marud’s superior, who demanded an explanation.
Their bickering forced all the Initiates to pay shamefaced attention to their feet and keep their heads down. The Head Cleric of the expedition was roasting Marud on the performance of the Initiates as Artorian strolled up with all the swagger of a star athlete. “Excuse me, my boys, why all the noise?”
Artorian would have said more, but an armored finger pointed a bare inch from the tip of his nose. “Is this him? Is this the fool that made all my recruits look so shameful?”
Marud kept his mouth shut tight, but his body language betrayed the answer. “Explain to me. Explain to me! How my top-class Initiates were left in the dust by… you. These men and women are the cream of the crop! Their potential is astounding, and now, I heard the aged landowner outran them? All of them?”
The… huh… short Head Cleric was almost foaming at the mouth, and Artorian would have been very interested in making a quip… if he wasn’t so puzzled by the pattern of behavior he’d observed in cleric leadership. Maybe it was chance? He shook off the thought and looked at the recruits. “Greetings, Head Cleric. I must admit your armor is quite the impressive symbol of your order.”
The Head Cleric wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and straightened up. Yes, yes it was excellent equipment. At least the landowner recognized quality. Artorian continued, this time not quite as flattering, “As for your Initiates. I’m not entirely certain why this is a surprise? They’re barely eating! If they got some chow in them, I would never have been able to outpace them! I’m not sure what you’ve all agreed upon between the other superiors in the Church, but you are more than welcome to till some land and grow some crops for additional food. The work may be too demanding for the recruits since only the strong should labor like that. Still… you’re welcome to do it.”
The expedition Head Cleric adjusted his gauntlet-strap and replied with a textbook answer, “Rationed meals are exactly portioned and even for every single Initiate. There is no issue with their intake.”
Artorian just shook his head, reminiscent of a disappointed father. “Would you have your troops drink more water in the desert or bundle up with an additional layer in the cold mo
untains?”
The Head Cleric crossed his arms as if the answer was obvious. “Well, of course I would. The environment demands it.”
Artorian nodded sagely, glad the man understood. “Then you understand, good sir, that this is the Fringe. Individuals require more intake than is ordinary when they are in this region. While I don’t know why this is the case, it is true. If you have been giving the Initiates regulation meals, which was my assumption, then they are without a doubt… malnourished.”
He clarified when he saw the Head Cleric didn’t seem to understand him. “Underfed, Head Cleric. I won’t ask you to believe me, but if you give them a few days with additional rations, I’m betting you’d see significant improvement.”
The primary Battle Leader grumbled but faced his vice-commander. “Marud, give them double rations for a week. No harm in checking the truth of this matter.”
As the superiors walked away together to discuss adapted meal plans, Artorian stepped past them and gave some of the tired recruits a pat on the back of their shoulders, humming along with a whispered, “You’re welcome.”
He had just gotten them all more food for the week! Everyone loved more chow. More than anything, Artorian smiled about his progress. He could walk again and properly. Excellent progress. He just about jumped into the air but held off. One thing at a time, old boy.
One thing at a time.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The first big hunt the expedition returned from had proven unfruitful. This fact soured moods and raised irritation among the whole cloister. They’d been certain it was going to be a victory, but the raiders had abandoned their activity midway. A small blessing, as the village a day’s ride away remained untouched as a result. However, the Choir expedition had spent resources and didn’t have a single decisive victory to report to the Keepers.
Speaking to the Keepers remained a conversation Nefellum didn’t want to have. The two were still beating the ever-loving abyss out of each other every few days. At least they had moved on from bread. A bowstring’s *twang* split the air as the tired force tromped back into the cloister’s camp. A few heads turned, and they saw Artorian had set up a makeshift target. He was holding a cobbled-together bow that looked poised to snap from the pitiful construction alone.
Sure enough, his next draw cracked the curved wooden branch right at the handle. He held the bottom half and watched the top dangle by the now-loose string. With a complaint too quiet for anyone to hear, he tossed it in a pile of two more snapped bows. Their quality was equally poor, and the expedition put the oddity out of mind, aside from a chuckle.
They recouped over the next few days and put together a new plan. As the days passed, the expedition members found the old man standing in a variety of places, staring at walls or off into space. They laughed at seeing him squint at a bucket of water, which he seemingly splashed into his own face at random. Beyond sputtering, Artorian didn’t budge at that, simply taking a few steps forward or a few steps back while half drenched.
The behavior was odd, but nobody wanted to ask. Just another old person doing strange, ‘old people’ things. After a few smirking stories spread about some of the demented things the codger had pulled in the middle of prayer several seasons ago, the expedition Acolytes decided to just give Artorian a wide berth. The Initiates followed suit with this behavior, but unlike their direct superiors, they kept their mouth shut on snide commentary.
Nobody who managed to secure extra rations for your entire troupe was going to get that treatment. They were all distinctly happier with more comfort food in this middle-of-nowhere cloister. Who knows, maybe the old man would end up doing something similar again? Freebies were a valued commodity in such an isolated no-chance-to-spend-your-silver place.
The Choir superiors approved of the change to farming the land, if only that it forced their Initiates and Acolytes to pay more attention to learning their chants and to focus attention on their cultivation. The extra field to till doubled as group coordination practice and offered a use for their unspent physical energy.
Yvessa was excluded from the majority of those tasks and was not up for playing the devious old skeleton’s games. With an *ahem*, she tapped him on the shoulder and felt the corners of her mouth creep upwards as the startled old man jumped a few feet.
“Whow!” He fumbled for the bucket and quickly dumped the rest of it into his face, soaking his long beard, bare chest, and baggy cloth pants. He squeezed a hand down his face to press the water off and blinked, then without squinting had a good look at Yvessa. “Oh, hello, my dear. You look lovely!”
The Acolyte had never been complimented on her appearance by Artorian before, and that set off warning bells in her mind. Her arms folded across her chest, and she slapped aside the attempt to distract her. “Uh-huh. What ridiculous scheme are you up to now?”
Artorian looked offended, his hand pressing to his heart as he leaned back. “My dear, why would I be up to anything? I’m harmless.”
He attempted to play it off with a forced, sweet little smile, but Yvessa wasn’t buying it. “My fractal-cultivation butt you’re harmless. You’re pacing and have creeped out nearly the entire camp. They think you’re senile!”
Artorian straightened after a shrug, hunching right back over as he squeezed the water from his beard. “I don’t see how that’s a bad thing. It gives me some space, nobody comes to ask questions, and I can nose my way around at leisure. I can ask all the strange questions I want, and since I wander off when they answer… well, hee-hee, they’ve learned that it makes me go away! It’s a momentary inconvenience for them, and I shan’t pretend I don't hear the jokes at my expense, but I am unbothered.”
Yvessa took a daunting step towards him. He was deflecting again! “What. Are. You. Up. To?”
Artorian’s shifty look to the side made the stern woman clamp a hand on his shoulder. This reminded him that the Acolyte saw through his wit, so he decided to just let her figure it out. He’d give her a few small clues to see what he could get away with.
“Have a careful look at… my eyes.” Yvessa didn’t relish the idea of peering deeply into the old man’s eyes, but she ever-so-gently leaned down and had a look.
“Bright blue, look spirited, lightly glazed, so a healthy coating that prevents the eyes from going dry. They’re excellent… I don’t see the problem.” She let go of him, expecting an actual explanation now that she was playing along.
Artorian just gave her another clue, “I too no longer see the problem.”
That was an odd thing to say, and Yvessa leaned back in and had another look. “I still don’t get it. They’re just eyes which—in my opinion—look like they ought to do all the things eyes do.”
She decided that she must be missing something, so she cycled Essence to her eyes. “Oh. Oh! You cleaned your…! No. Wait. Are these… new? As in completely…”
Artorian smiled and gave an ever-so-minor nod. Yvessa paced around him like a curious animal, using Essence sight to inspect from differing angles. “How did you…? Did you go blind and rebuild your eyes with pure Essence? How did you figure out how to do this? I was only told about meridians last week, and this isn’t even remotely similar.”
Artorian puzzled her words out and looked to the sky for a moment in befuddlement. “Meridians… do you by chance just mean vital inner organs? The six Yin and six Yang? Helps Essence move through the small, inner holes that are on the edge of your Center, then loops? Correct?”
He waved off her raw bewilderment. Yvessa rattled off her knowledge so as to not feel like she’d been left in the dust. “I was told meridians are energy channels that transport life energy throughout the body. Life energy is also known as Chi—or Essence—depending on what part of the world you’re in. They’re very important for one’s affinity channels, being the pathways along the meridians that Essence flows through. Having multiple affinities will open more pathways, allowing more Essence to flow in at one time.”
The old
man winced and filled in how he found out in his own terms. “I had corruption flowing through those channels. I am very much aware they exist, how they work, and where they go. Pain is a memorable teacher, as your Initiate’s instructor seems to understand. Now, I have a vague idea of the increase in longevity the reinforcing of meridians—or vital inner organs—may grant. However, it comes with a cost I currently cannot pay.”
He held his hand up to halt her inevitable retort. “Yes. I rebuilt my eyes completely. If it wasn’t clear before, my eyesight had been significantly damaged. Cleaning my eyes of corruption and dumping said corruption into my Center for storage was insufficient. At best, it restored my eyes to the best quality they could be in the state that they were. Which is to say piss poor.”
A snort came from Yvessa at his sudden language, and he’d said it with emphasis and a sharp up and down movement of his head to drive the context home. She held her questions and let him go on. “So, little by little, I painstakingly siphoned individual cells rather than repairing them. I fueled this by a combination of refined and celestial Essence, with the intent to replace what was lost. When the cell formed, it did so in the best pattern it could be rather than simply ‘repairing’ the damaged segment. Mind you, the process is slow and took quite some doing in order to keep the identity of the Essence steady while it set. I am becoming quite adept at the basics of shaping, moving, and convincing unformed Essence to be something other than what it wants to be.”
Yvessa held up her hand to pose a question; she had a few now. Artorian nodded to his student, falling right back in teaching mode. “Why are you pacing around if your eyes are fine, and what do you mean by ‘basic functions’ and changing those?”
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