The Hammer Unfalls

1.20 Ready, Fire, Aim

⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅

The sound of the slamming door set Glim into motion. He looked at the useless firesteel in his hands and tossed it aside.

He had no time for that. He had to get warm, and fast. He felt his body giving up. His limbs refusing to move. The urge to sleep came over him, like those who froze among the Hiemal Peaks seeking trinkets from the ruins. The bereaved always came back with the same story. Their companions had become sluggish out in the frigid wastes, and express their desire to sleep. They’d curl up in the snow and succumb, and never wake again.

But not me.

He looked around the garden for a source of heat and found none. When he stumbled past the garden gate, Glim saw a disused arch that led to a stairway.

He knew where he had to go.

Glim hadn't used these stairs in a year or so. Not since the blizzard. They led to the tunnels under Wohn-Grab. The heat from the hot spring collected down here, too warm for most people. But he could already feel the death of cold in his trembling arms. The apathy of mind and body that caused unwary travelers to their town to perish in the wilds.

Dazed, Glim wandered the tunnels, using heat as his only guide. He ducked into a side-tunnel and down another flight of stairs into a labyrinth of strange cogs and pipes. Deeper inside the maze he saw a ruddy glow. Curiosity overcame his urge to sleep and he moved towards it. Inside a brassy cylinder, at the center of a circle of flagstones, Glim saw a dancing spark of light behind a window. Warmth suffused the round chamber. Glim sat on the stone floor and watched the spark dance.

This is what it had all come to. His body shutting down from cold, huddled in an obscure corner of the fortress. He'd probably die here. They'd be sorry then. The kids who had teased him, and especially Master Willow. The guards would cast him out. Strip him of his trinkets and kick him out of the tower. Master Willow would roam the frigid ridgelines of the Hiemal Peaks and be eaten by hinterjacks.

Glim smiled and closed his eyes.

They won't find my body for days, he thought. Not until the stench came through the steam pipes into the towers. Everyone’s porridge would smell like Glim. The thought of the distraught townspeople made him smile.

Drowsiness overtook him.

NOOO!, he screamed at himself.

He had to do something. But what? How could he stop himself from succumbing?

Something deep within himself responded. It clicked into place, like muscle memory when wielding a sword and using a guard he’d practiced before but never needed. He fumbled towards the answer. It hovered just out of reach, like a word on the tip of his tongue.

In a sudden rush, Glim recalled what his tutor had just said a few moments ago:

I've tried my best to teach you over the years. The focusing rituals. Restoration rituals. The simple basics.

The restoration ritual! Glim had never needed it before. He’d never truly taxed himself. Neither plyed algidon, nor been attacked by it as he just had.

Until now, the restoration ritual had been nothing but another assignment. A recitation of lore, like the rest of the words Master Willow made him memorize. As meaningless as talking about bridge essentiæ or The Needle Theorem.

Well, it meant something now.

Everything, in fact.

Glim took a deep breath and started the ritual. For real. For the first time meaning every word.

“What is your favorite taste?” he asked himself out loud. His voice sounded weak in his ears.

That was easy. Berries. During the scant month or so they actually grew, they were a delicacy unlike any other. Sour-sweet buds nestled among the leathery brown leaves of the bushes.

“What is your favorite sound?”

Probably the sound of wooden swords clacking together as his father taught him to spar. The jarring thud in his bones from delivering a proper strike. The memory of that sound warmed him inside.

“What is your favorite color?” he asked himself, with slightly more vigor. His voice sounded more sure in his own ears.

Glim had always disliked this question. He adored all of the colors. Red, orange, yellow, brown, blue, and purple. They each had their own special quality. It was a little tricky to tell red, brown, and purple apart though. Red had more warmth, purple felt cool, and brown was just the right mix. Good thing, too. Because aside from the white of the snow and the blue of the sky, brown was by far the most common color in Æronthrall.

As an Icer, though, yellow held a special place in his heart. The color that helped him collect the warmth, picturing sunshine on skin. The color that made him tingle, and summoned the ice.

The thought of summoning ice made him stiffen. He felt like someone had kicked him in the chest and knocked the wind from him. He felt weak again, and felt the urge to lay down.

You ignorant clod! he chastised himself. The ritual is supposed to take your mind off plying so you can recover. How dumb can you be?

The weakness intensified and Glim moaned. His chastisement also ran counter to the ritual, which was about rejuvenation. Suffusing yourself with positive memories to drive away the fatigue of overusing essentiæ.

He thought of rasp-berries croaking hoarsely as he popped them into his mouth. Imagined the tart juice sweetening his tongue.

“What is your favorite…” He’d been about to say scent. But the image of his mother’s vial flashed into his mind, and Glim skidded right past that question.

“What is your favorite sensation?”

Glim had never gotten this far. Not really. Oh, he’d asked himself the question before, and come up with answers like bunny fur or a clean tunic fresh from the warming room.

Those things were… nice. But picturing them was not helping Glim pull himself back from the brink of drain.

I need to come up with a real answer.

Fighting panic, Glim searched his mind. What sensation did he like most?

A montage of images flickered through his mind. Warm stones at the hearthfire. Soup in his belly. The spring wind on his face. The vibration of ringing steel as he drew his father’s sword from its sheath when the man wasn’t around.

Glim felt a flutter of warmth inside. Something about the memory stirred him.

Glim pictured it in more detail. The taut leather of the scabbard that plinked when he drummed his fingers across it. The ridges of the grip in his palm. That glorious moment when he yanked it out and the sword rang, sending tremors down his forearm.

The more he pictured drawing the sword, the greater the glow inside him became. But it still wasn’t enough.

Master Willow’s voice spoke in his mind. The more honest your answers, the greater the restoration. He could practically hear his tutor’s reedy sneer. At the sound of it, the glow inside of Glim retreated. He didn’t really trust the man. Even his title set him on edge. Master. As if everyone had to kiss his feet. The word made Glim sick.

The dark spiral of his thoughts chased away all the warmth Glim had built. Desperate, Glim scrambled back to the image of the sword in his hand. The glow did not return this time.

Why? Why do you like the sword? Figure it out, you clod— er, I mean, you delightful boy.

He only drew the sword when father wasn’t there. He’d be furious with Glim. But the allure was too strong to resist. Glim pictured himself twirling the deadly blade and arcing it through the air. The memory helped the glow inside him stabilize somewhat, although it didn’t grow much. Not until he admitted to himself why he loved it. Why the sword meant so much to him.

Glim pictured it once more. Himself, older, and part of the guard. His very own sword strapped to a belt slung across his hip. Drawing it out, and turning to face a shadowy figure behind him.

“That’s right, mother. I stopped going to the lessons. I belong to the Guard of Wohn-Grab now, and you can shove these lessons up your rear.”

The glow surged inside Glim. His fatigue dissipated. The fatigue of essentiæ, at least. His body remained just as tired as it had been. If not moreso.

Glim pictured the search party entering the chamber. His father would lead the search. He'd come into this chamber, find the lump of Glim’s dead flesh on the floor, and wail over the still form, regretting ever sending Glim to study with Master Willow.

The glow of restoration suffused him even more. Glim lapsed into sleep, with his father's tortured cries of regret echoing in his mind.