x
Brandon had been planning to go back home once the rain stopped, making it easier to both see and not slip on the rocks, but the clouds did not seem intent on stopping the downpour anytime soon. Of course, he just could go out whenever he wanted and travel through the rain, however, the droplets were cold and his clothes were soaked. Already there had a puddle formed around the spot he'd been sitting in, and even though the cave was dry, it was still cold. As a matter of fact, Brandon was freezing in his soaked garments, and thus decided to strip. Gallan had once said something about catching a cold because of running around in wet clothes, so keeping them on did not appear to be a good idea. Nor was running back to Kalinor through the rain.
As such, he young Kelvic was effectively trapped inside the cavern, with no company and no means of entertaining himself. Well, there was no human or humanoid company anyway; the whole cave reeked of bat, as well as the critters known as rats. While Bran did not mind the former, he wasn't really fond of the latter. He sighed and pulled his knees closer to his chest, an effort to contain his own heat. There was probably no wood in this cave, and even if there was, the bat couldn't make a fire without tinderbox. Another sigh, followed by a shiver, and Brandon wished he hadn't run of like that. He could have been dry and warm at home right now, unless Lethia would force him to train in the rain, using an excuse like “you can't choose the weather during a battle” or something like that.
She was right of course, but that did not matter at all. Brandon was fed up with being trained the way he was, no matter the results. Some part of his mind told him to stop whining and just take it, to just endure. That his mother was right, and that she did all of it only to help him. “Hmpf.” It was pointedly ignored, or he tried to anyway but it did not let him. Instead it just returned time and time again. It showed flashes of the events from a couple chimes ago; his mother's hurt and saddened look, the bear whimpering and seeking for something. Someone. Him. Brandon denied guilt though; it wasn't his fault, he hadn't chosen to train that way. It wasn't his mother who'd been punched in the face and gut and where-ever over and over again. Actually she was, the little voice said, supporting its statement with more memories. His mother telling him about the city she'd stayed in for a while, where she'd met his father.
Lethia had picked up her knowledge and skills from that place -what was it called again? River-something. She'd trained there, she'd sparred there. There was no way she had come out of all that unscathed. That sort of thing was just part of the training; you would get hurt, and you would injure yourself or be injured during it. There was no escaping that, that was just how things were. Brandon felt like a crybaby for complaining about it. He'd said he wanted to leave Kalinor, and his mother had asked whether he was ready or not, and of course he'd claimed to be ready. He'd thought he was, but the opposite was true. He clearly wasn't, and this situation he was in proved that. He was no-where near ready. Lethia was right; the outside world was dangerous, the outside world did not have a Lethia and a Gallan to support him all the way. They weren't coming with him. He'd be on his own. How could he complain if bandits beat him half-dead just because he wasn't tough enough to take a beating? Maybe he could have come out of there better if he'd let Lethia do what she thought was best. Maybe he could have even turned that hypothetical situation upside down.
The thought alone made the bat feel worse about himself. Lethia had offered to help him, and he'd complained. He'd criticized her even though he couldn't possibly hope to do things better. Those words of confidence he'd spouted earlier, of becoming stronger than his mother one day, now sounded arrogant. How could he have said those one moment and begin whining the next? What was he? He wasn't some … some … human cub, too incompetent to do anything on his own and cry about anything and everything! No! He was Brandon! A Kelvic! A genius, a prodigy in the field of martial arts! He was not incompetent, he wasn't some crying meatball! He was a petching proud Kelvic! He wouldn't lose to anyone! He wouldn't become some weak-kneed, spineless crying lump of meat with a face! He was Brandon the Bat! He would be better, stronger and dangerous! He'd show to the world just who the heck he was! He'd make a name for himself, earn himself a reputation. Be it as a martial artist or something else; but the world would come to know him, and then this whole event would be nothing! It would prove nothing at all, except maybe that you could overcome yourself. No one would be able to say he'd become a weak, pathetic spineless petching bag of meat because of this. That he was always destined to become that, that they'd known from the start. Oh heck no!
Fiercely, Brandon cast a glance outside, the rain was still falling down as if someone was pouring buckets from above the clouds. But who cared about a little rain? Who cared about a little, insignificant cold? Surely Bran did not! No he did not! The bat grabbed his clothes and boots, and folded his shirt around the other items, tying a knot in it to create a bag of sorts. Then he wriggled himself out of the cave and into the rain. It was time to head back.
As such, he young Kelvic was effectively trapped inside the cavern, with no company and no means of entertaining himself. Well, there was no human or humanoid company anyway; the whole cave reeked of bat, as well as the critters known as rats. While Bran did not mind the former, he wasn't really fond of the latter. He sighed and pulled his knees closer to his chest, an effort to contain his own heat. There was probably no wood in this cave, and even if there was, the bat couldn't make a fire without tinderbox. Another sigh, followed by a shiver, and Brandon wished he hadn't run of like that. He could have been dry and warm at home right now, unless Lethia would force him to train in the rain, using an excuse like “you can't choose the weather during a battle” or something like that.
She was right of course, but that did not matter at all. Brandon was fed up with being trained the way he was, no matter the results. Some part of his mind told him to stop whining and just take it, to just endure. That his mother was right, and that she did all of it only to help him. “Hmpf.” It was pointedly ignored, or he tried to anyway but it did not let him. Instead it just returned time and time again. It showed flashes of the events from a couple chimes ago; his mother's hurt and saddened look, the bear whimpering and seeking for something. Someone. Him. Brandon denied guilt though; it wasn't his fault, he hadn't chosen to train that way. It wasn't his mother who'd been punched in the face and gut and where-ever over and over again. Actually she was, the little voice said, supporting its statement with more memories. His mother telling him about the city she'd stayed in for a while, where she'd met his father.
Lethia had picked up her knowledge and skills from that place -what was it called again? River-something. She'd trained there, she'd sparred there. There was no way she had come out of all that unscathed. That sort of thing was just part of the training; you would get hurt, and you would injure yourself or be injured during it. There was no escaping that, that was just how things were. Brandon felt like a crybaby for complaining about it. He'd said he wanted to leave Kalinor, and his mother had asked whether he was ready or not, and of course he'd claimed to be ready. He'd thought he was, but the opposite was true. He clearly wasn't, and this situation he was in proved that. He was no-where near ready. Lethia was right; the outside world was dangerous, the outside world did not have a Lethia and a Gallan to support him all the way. They weren't coming with him. He'd be on his own. How could he complain if bandits beat him half-dead just because he wasn't tough enough to take a beating? Maybe he could have come out of there better if he'd let Lethia do what she thought was best. Maybe he could have even turned that hypothetical situation upside down.
The thought alone made the bat feel worse about himself. Lethia had offered to help him, and he'd complained. He'd criticized her even though he couldn't possibly hope to do things better. Those words of confidence he'd spouted earlier, of becoming stronger than his mother one day, now sounded arrogant. How could he have said those one moment and begin whining the next? What was he? He wasn't some … some … human cub, too incompetent to do anything on his own and cry about anything and everything! No! He was Brandon! A Kelvic! A genius, a prodigy in the field of martial arts! He was not incompetent, he wasn't some crying meatball! He was a petching proud Kelvic! He wouldn't lose to anyone! He wouldn't become some weak-kneed, spineless crying lump of meat with a face! He was Brandon the Bat! He would be better, stronger and dangerous! He'd show to the world just who the heck he was! He'd make a name for himself, earn himself a reputation. Be it as a martial artist or something else; but the world would come to know him, and then this whole event would be nothing! It would prove nothing at all, except maybe that you could overcome yourself. No one would be able to say he'd become a weak, pathetic spineless petching bag of meat because of this. That he was always destined to become that, that they'd known from the start. Oh heck no!
Fiercely, Brandon cast a glance outside, the rain was still falling down as if someone was pouring buckets from above the clouds. But who cared about a little rain? Who cared about a little, insignificant cold? Surely Bran did not! No he did not! The bat grabbed his clothes and boots, and folded his shirt around the other items, tying a knot in it to create a bag of sorts. Then he wriggled himself out of the cave and into the rain. It was time to head back.
x
credit goes to Euthisa
