Modern Medievals

Chapter 5

Holk awoke on the floor of his training room, in the same position he had been in when his core was under the blanket of rocks: on his stomach, with his arms stretched out in front of him, slightly bent. That's how it worked. Whatever position a person's core was in, that was the position your shade was in, and vice versa. He took deep, gasping breaths, and waited for the pain to pass. Fighting the process of his core and shade coming together once more--the Pull, as hit was properly called-- hurt more than anything he had ever experienced. He felt stretched. As though his peices had been trying to meld together, while at the same time trying to seperate.Thats the last time I do that. It still felt like his body was slowly melding together once again. Like pixels of his core had gotten lost on its way to rejoin his shade, and they were just catching up now.

Holk kept his head facing the floor, but he forced his eyes upward, catching a glance of a pair of muddied boots in front of him. He was unable to look the wearer of the boots-- Arehmit-- in the eye. He knew the look that would be on that face, and he couldn't bear to see it. The left boot began tapping the floor.

"Look at me, Holk."

Holk continued gasping on the floor, but didn't look up.

"Look at me!" Arehmit hissed.

Holk pushed his palms agasint the floor, slightly lifting his torso, and snapped his head up. Anger flared in his hazel eyes. Unwaveringly, he locked eyes with Arehmit. He said nothing.

Arehmit crouched down, grabbed Holk by the back of his shirt, and yanked him to his feet, shaking him like a rag doll.

"Holk!" Anger was etched in his master's voice. "You could've been killed! Why on Tetrain did you resist the Pull? Couldn't you see you failed the mission?" The two if them stood, eye to eye, for a long while, each furious with the other.

Suddenly, Arehmit's gaze softened, and he embraced Holk, pressing him against his body. "I almost lost you, boy." Arehmit gulped. "You idiotic, foolish, headstrong boy." The pressure of Arehmit's hand on the back of Holk's head left, and Arehmit ended the embrace as sudddenly as it had begun. Arehmit took a step back and stood rubbing his forehead.

Shaken by his master's show of affecton, and ashamed of his actions, Holk hung his head and stared at his feet. The awkward silence continued for a long while.

"Master, I--" Arehmit's raised hand stopped Holk from continuing.

"Say nothing. We will speak of this later." With that, Arehmit turned, and left the tent silently.

Holk stood alone in his training room, the flap of the fabric used as the door of the training tent flapping slightly in the soft breeze. Angry with himself, Holk stomped over to the punching sack in the center of the room. The heavy, sand-filled sack hung from the peak of the tent. Arehmit had given it to him for his sixteenth birthday, and as an extra challenge with his training.

Holk tore off his training tunic, and thrust it to the corner of the room. He slowly pulled his arm back, and held it there for an instant. He glared at the sack in front of him, and then let his hand fly.

SMACK.

The bag swung away from him wildly. On its return swing, Holk was ready. At the peak of its swing, he kicked, putting his whole body into it. His dusty shoes left a perfect mark on the black leather bag. Soon the bag swung faster and faster from the repetitive punches and kicks. Holk's anger helped him to keep up. Sweat soon began to drip from his face and down his back.

"Master Holk?"

Holk didn't hear the small voice coming from the tent entrance. He continued his mad assault on the sack, punching and kicking as the bag swung almost horizontaly from the force of his hits.