The Flight & The Fall

I. Training

"Get up."

His breath came in short pants, lungs burning like the fires of Sabosa had become the very air around them. He fought against the screaming of his muscles and tendons that pleaded him to stay down, to let the exhaustion finally take him at last.

But that was not an option here.

Not against the merciless, armor-clad individual pacing the grounds before him... Waiting.

Sweat mixed with blood dripped from his brow, wetting the dirt beneath him like raindrops on a dry plain. Panic tightened his chest and throat as expectations of what would come next flooded through him. Fighting through this ache of exhaustion would surely be better than the pain that was promised if he didn't.

Move, damn you. He pleaded with himself. Move.

Even on the ground he still gripped his sword, but he reached for the shield that had been knocked a few inches from him, using the face of it to aid his slow press off the ground.

He hadn't even been badly injured; his limitations more so due to the extent of how long this fight had gone on for. Seconds, into minutes, into hours without so much as a single break to even retain one's sanity. His jaw smarted from the blow he's taken to the head earlier, and the sharp tang of iron coated his tongue from a wound he couldn't yet identify. Surely it took more than this to keep him down.

Maybe if he could use his shield as a crutch to help him stand...

He dug the iron base point into the dirt, gripping the tierce with sweat-slicked hands to push upwards.

From above he heard the breath of an exacerbated sigh, then the stomping of footsteps closing the distance between them.

He had managed to gain footing beneath him again, but the accomplishment was short-lived as his father's sabaton swung into his stomach, the hit hard enough to send him off-balance and catapulting onto his back. The pain tore the little breath from him, his blurred vision marring the blue cloud-peppered skies above head as he struggled to regain precious air.

Breathing hard, adrenaline from injury allowed him to grip his weapons and painstakingly get his feet beneath him. Standing upright pulled an ache in his abdomen where the boot had landed, but he ignored the feeling. Pressed it down.

Orcus Dawnguard paced the training grounds before him, the aasimar's pale eyes narrowed and furious as he assessed his son's stance. He wore a half-plate of armor even in the heat of the summer day, with a soft glow of radiance emanating from the golden blade held tight in his right hand.

"Do you have any idea the insult it is to drag your shield through the dirt?" Orcus spat, nodding his intention at the simple wooden shield held in the boy's grip.

"The shield is not just a weapon, it is a strength of its own. Your only defense against your foes on the field of battle." The male continued. "A knight without a shield may be considered just another meager sword-swinging warrior, lusting for blood and careless in the defense of others. But your shield represents your honor. Your promise of protection to those who seek it. A symbol of mercy and goodness above all else, which is why a good knight depicts their driving force for justice upon the face."

Orcus tipped the shield in his left hand so that the light of the day reflected from its pristine surface. As all shields belonging to the knights within Veros, the smithy had welt upon it the symbol of the Elder Celestial, Yuna. As creator of the day, it depicted a simple image of the sun cresting over a flat horizon, with rays of light spanning each angle. A simple icon for such complex representation; harmony, stasis, and natural creation, among others.