Unblooded

"You need to let it embrace you."

Those words resounded within his head—a nightmare that cracked and battered and beat down against his skull. It was like a plague that never receded, an echo that never faded.

Forever, they would be ingrained in his mind.

As blood ran down his cheek, he couldn't help but cry, silent pain streaking across every single point of his tattered body. Water seeped into his clothes, his hands and legs trembling at even the wind's gentle touch against his skin.

His punch had ruined him. Of course, he never expected to land the blow against someone like Eofa, but he also didn't expect a devastating blow to wreck his stomach and collapse his stamina.

He didn't expect this to be 'training.'

Eofa showed sympathy... or at least, that's what the boy saw in his mind. It wasn't the same as the night they'd met, wrapped in a warm, almost caring embrace amidst Heath's darkest hour. Instead, it was in the form of acceptance. Indifference.

He didn't care how easily Heath had been defeated by the blow. He didn't insult or berate, yell or scathe; he simply continued... "Go again."

He still found it hard to stand, invisible bruises covering every bit of his skin from having rolled across smooth yet hard stones. Still, he managed.

His legs were weak, arms barely able to stretch, but he stood. For a brief second, Heath could've sworn Eofa was about to smile—the edges of his lips unravelling upwards for the shortest fraction of time.

But he saw it, and for once, for the briefest period possible, he had felt acknowledged. Accepted.

"We can stop if you need," Eofa whimpered, possibly acknowledging a line had been crossed. "We have a few years, after all."

To his own bewilderment, Heath had refused. "I can still go on."

His heart burned. His body was failing him, and yet instinctively, he wanted to continue. To move forward. 'Why?' he asked himself, mind equally confused at his own decisions. Inside, he wanted to scream. To yell.

Externally, he charged once more.

Slower this time, a subtle limp in his movements. his body seethed at the pain, back bending down whilst his arms scrambled for the submerged sword beneath the water.

He turned once more when it fell into his grasp, staring down the man with an unbridled vigor in his eyes.

It was tense for a moment, though; the outcome remained the same.

Once he had committed to a running assault, it had already been decided. Once more, the man saw through Heath's weakness, folding to the side and jutting the back of his neck with an elbow.

Heath fell to the floor, jaw smacking against the stones below as they clicked with his upper jaw, a wave of pain swarming around his mouth.

This time, however, the blow was noticeably weaker. Eofa was taking it easy on him—for now, anyways. Whereas the punch nearly sucked every remaining bit of energy from Heath, this time, the blow to the neck only resulted in a minor resounding pain; Constant, but subtle. Inconsequential.

More notable, however, was that Heath was expecting a blow this time. His grip remained firm, even amidst the shocking pain throughout his body. As he raised himself, face covered in a new coat of loch, he vaguely acknowledged his own minor achievement to remain hold of the blade.

A minor, if not useless, skill to be learning for right now. After all, he still hadn't landed a single blow.

Still, if he didn't need to spend time going back for his blade, then he could theoretically attack faster. In his eyes, he saw this as ideal.

It was almost embarrassing how many attempts he genuinely tried—each one getting slower and weaker than the last. His stamina was coming to an end, and his body was failing.

A few more attempts, and he wouldn't even be able to move.

It seemed as though Eofa had realised this, gently gripping Heath's hand on his next assault rather than beating him down.

"It's time to stop, Heath," He murmured, the calming sounds of birds squealing in the skies above, "You need to rest."

He couldn't even compute his words at first, only truly realizing once Eofa's back turned and slowly paced away from the spring. Truth be told, he hadn't even realised his own pain- adrenaline and determination completely blocking it from his mind.

One of his eyes had turned an unsightly black, nose appearing slightly deformed, and in general, he was covered in hundreds of cuts and scrapes. The hand in which he held his blade was in particularly bad shape—blisters and torn skin covering up and down, as if a testament to his determination.

The water, too, masked the tears that leaked from his eyes every now and then. It gave him deniability; 'I'm not in pain. I wasn't crying. I'm just wet, that's all.'

Deniablity he could no longer keep.

Still, by some ungodly fortune, he was able to stand. Despite the strain on his muscles, the bruises and cuts that masked his skin, he was standing. He was breathing. He was alive.

For a brief moment, this gave him hope. Hope that the training would be doable. Until he looked at the sky...

...And realised that only a meager hour or so had passed.

In that short amount of time, he was beaten. Eofa had been going easy on him, and dominated him to such an extent that they had to end after only an hour.

'An hour,' he thought, mouth hanging agape as his breath turned frigid. 'I could only last an hour...'

He thought back to what Eofa had said when training had first begun; How by the end, he'd have to face an eldritch. No help, no running, no dying. He'd have to kill it.

'At this pace... I can't do anything. At this pace...'

His hand gripped the edge of his skull, '...I'm just a dead man walking....'