Unblooded

Two days had passed—no training had been done.

Heath had questioned it himself; Why he said yes that day. If he knew the only thing to come of it would be studying and analyzing old books and charters, his response would've likely been different.

Still, it wasn't like he was out of his comfort zone when it came to things like this. A majority of his time, back in his family's manor, of course, was exactly this. Reading, learning, writing. Reading, learning, writing. In his path to strive for greatness, he reduced his life constantly in the effort to learn as much as possible.

After recent events, however, it seemed like that knowledge was useless.

"It's because you learned it wrong," Eofa had told him the day this 'training' had begun. "The books and historical documents within the communities usually aren't first-hand accounts, but second-hand scribblings of a fool who knows not of the outside world."

At first, Heath had a hard time believing anything that came from the man's mouth. After these past two days, however, it suddenly started to come together. To make sense.

The writings contained within the walled settlements weren't 'wrong,' they were just... unfinished. How to effectively start a fire, how to harness it against an eldritch, how to survive out in the wilderness. All of it was there, but as the man had stated, felt more like a retelling than a truth of fact.

"Don't just use the fire," he remembered a conversation with Eofa, "Fight with the fire. You were correct to use it as a deterrent, but you never actually applied it correctly."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you only waved it in its face. That stopped him for a good two seconds."

"But that's the way the books taught me!"

"Then they taught you wrong. Don't just let it see the fire, let it feel it. Let it burn."

"As in... throw the torch at it?"

"Eldritch have an innate, almost spiritual connection to the dark. The fire most definitely wouldn't kill one, but it'd weaken it. Slow it down. More than that, you can now run away without a giant glowing beacon saying 'hey, come and kill me.'"

The moment Heath heard those words, it felt almost obvious in hindsight. Then again, the books he grew up on never mentioned any of this. He had realised: Second-hand accounts pale in comparison to what someone with actual experience could teach you. Someone like Eofa.

"The groundwork of knowledge is still there, fortunately. All we need to do is expand it. To make you live and breathe the knowledge until you become one with it. Can you do that? Can you relearn everything you already knew? Can you reshape who you are to become strong? To become the embodiment of power?"

Again, he didn't know why he said yes that day... but he did. He had chosen his path.

Back to the present, Heath was exhausted. The previous two days were pure, unbridled, hour-long sessions of nothing but reading and writing down what he learned. He thought the training would've been more hands-on, considering Eofa's disdain for community-published guides and stories, though Heath had never expected him to pull out hundreds of books that notably weren't.

It wasn't all bad, however. The man's presence, while still slightly odd, awkward, and unsettling at times, gave him a raw feeling of comfort. More than that, he wasn't scared to walk around the building anymore, exploring the haunted halls and empty rooms with hollow sadness.

Sometimes he studied up in his room, either on a small wooden desk following the front wall or curled up in the bed. Others, he was down in the bar or even just outside, underneath a tall pine to block out the sun.

His nerves, as the days passed, went down, little by little, until finally, he felt the semblance of safety here. Comfort.

He hadn't thought of this place as a home, but to him, it was a refuge; free from the sins of life, free from the sins of the eldritch.

Here, he could just live—a fleeting sense of euthymia in the wake of death.

Currently, his stomach was firmly pressed against the bed, an open book to his left with a small journal to his right, which he used to note anything of importance. A small lantern burned atop his desk a few paces away, and as the crickets chirped from beyond his confines, he knew it was time to call it a night.

He let out a low grumble, shutting the book and shimmying over towards the table. He spun a small dial by the lantern's base, a small latch closing from within and padding out the fire from the top of the wick.

As the smoke rose and filtered through a brass metallic pipe by the lantern's roof, the room was engulfed in cold darkness.

The boy shook his head.

In the past few days, more has happened to him than in his entire life combined. He was different. He was changed. And he knew that.

Tomorrow was a day he dreaded... or perhaps anticipated. The jumbled emotions in his brain made it hard to tell the difference, only a burning in his heart that made him aware: He should feel something.

For right now, however, he didn't know which it was. Excitement or fear.

The man had told him what to expect only a few hours prior, when the sun was still in the sky and painted the horizon a deep orange glow; "Tomorrow, we start training."

"I thought we already were training?" He murmured in response, still lost in thought with one of the books in his face.

"Yes, we are. But I mean, we'll start the real training. Hands on."

His heart dropped as he said those words, the same time that burning in his chest began to flare up.

"That's what you wanted... right, Heath?"

He couldn't deny it. All he did was nod.

He could feel it in his bones, though. He wasn't ready. Books and notes go a long way, but experience is everything. It was experience he didn't yet have.

Even worse, the cut on his hand had yet to fully heal, still soaked in a faded crimson red. He could still feel its pain.

Regardless, he had asked for this. Regardless, he wanted this.

He wanted to be strong... and come tomorrow, he'll be a step closer towards that goal.

One day, he'd become strong.