Forty Years of This [Monster Hunter World]

Chapter 44

"What do you think, Huntsman? Is my boy ready for his first hunt?" The Commander dropped into a chair next to the old hunter at the canteen. His grandson had been eager to go out into the world with his mentor, but he was also barely thirteen. The Commander had been seven when he'd started following on hunts, but that was in the Old World surrounded by family.

"Hunt? Maybe not. But it would be useful to start him on tracking. Between me and your daughter, it will be a smooth exercise, but if you coddle him he will never be a hunter."

"Do you think I'm coddling him?" The Commander raised a brow.

"I do." The Huntsman met him with a steely gaze. "He's thirteen, and he hasn't gone tracking yet. He's eager to learn, but you fear injury and accident, so he cannot learn. I do not want his mother tagging along-- though I do not think she coddles the boy, her presence will make it too soft. Too unreal." He placed a hand on the Commander's shoulder. "Trust me to turn this boy into a hunter that will survive this land. Unless it is your intent to lose him to the Old World when your daughter returns."

They were gone for a week. The Commander trusted his old friend, but he couldn't help the nagging worry that tugged on the edges of his mind. One night, as he lay in bed with the Quartermaster beside him, he rolled over to face his partner and said, "When I was a kid, my grandfather took me on fishing trips. He took a bunch of us kids, but he was there with us..."

The Quartermaster cracked open an eye. "So take the grandkids on a fishing trip. We can manage for a few days."

"The problem is, if something attacks us, I can't protect them..."

"Good gods, ████. Your bad leg doesn't make you completely useless out there-- we're already old enough that a bad knee just happens. I've seen you do things that you claim you can't without thinking. If you needed to, your leg wouldn't stop you from protecting those kids from a rathian. You're afraid, and you're just using that as a crutch." The Quartermaster was awake now and thoroughly irritated. "No, don't go chasing after a great jagras or whatever, but stop lying to yourself that you're stuck here. You flew on that wingdrake with no issue. You shot down that rathian like you did it on a regular basis. If you're so worried, take more hunters with you. I'm sure the Huntsman would like to be included, and our daughter is a skilled hunter. So stop being so 'woe is me' and do something about it."

The Quartermaster shot him an ugly glare then rolled over. The Commander knew he was right. He knew, on some level, that his limp didn't really stop him from doing much of anything. Yes, he lived with chronic pain, and yes, it made some tasks far more difficult than they should have been, but he lived with it. He coped with it. There were solutions, but deep down-- even deeper than the pain in his leg-- there was a fear. A nightmare that stalked the edges of his dreams all these years later.

The beast was dead, though he never saw its corpse, and the Huntsman had been the one to put it down. But it was not the only anajath out there, and the Commander knew he would not be able to survive another encounter. But how could he explain that to the Quartermaster? A man who never hunted and never found himself in the maw of a monster spewing blood and fire? He suddenly felt very alone and rolled over to face away from his partner.

The boy came back with the pelt of a jagras draped over his shoulder like a cape. He was tired, a bit dirty, and very eager to go straight to the canteen, but the Huntsman first took him by the provisions drop off where they unloaded a sack full of meat, a package of mushrooms, and a bundle of vegetables and herbs. Then, they reported to the Commander. The boy had seen hunters do their reports a thousand times before, so he was prepared to give his own.

"Commander, we tracked a pack of jagras to their den, culled four of them, harvested the meat from two of them and took the pelt of one of them. The other pelts were too damaged. During the week, we searched for useful plants and mushrooms. We've already dropped off our supplies."

The Commander crossed his arms and looked down at his grandson like he would any commissioner. "Your report on the jagras? Where is the den? How many were in the pack? Did you see the great jagras?"

The boy balked, unused to his grandfather looking down on him like this, but he started again when the Huntsman poked him between the shoulders. "There were eight jagras digging a burrow along the river that leads out to the ocean by the kestadon beach. We found evidence of a great jagras, but we never saw her."

"What kind of evidence?"

"Tracks. None fresher than a day old. Some territorial markings. We intentionally avoided encountering her."

"Good." The Commander nodded. "Wash up, rest, and recollect yourselves. I plan on sending you out again. I will send for you when I have decided when. You are dismissed."

The boy blinked rapidly, but didn't move. Finally, the Commander broke his facade and smiled warmly at him. "I'm proud of you. That wasn't a bad report at all, and you've made it through your first rite of passage as a hunter. Before you know it, you'll have your own team out there without the Huntsman guiding you. Now I meant it when I said go wash up. You're both filthy, and you," he looked at the Huntsman. "You smell terrible."