Chapter 3

14 3 0
                                    

Rory's forehead was covered in a sheen of sweat, and he charged forward with his sword with the reckless determination of a young boy with something to prove.

Raphael smiled, but only to himself. He had been like Rory once, with a fire in his gut and the keen eyes of one yet to bloody his hands. Raphael did not know why he offered to train Rory, but something in the boy had stirred his interest.

Rory's reddish-brown hair was tied back in a short tail, but strands of it were falling free around his face and obscuring his vision. Still, he kept running. He was panting and his arms felt like lead, but he did not stop. He was determined to show Raphael that he was worth something, that he could become a great Swordsman. Perhaps if he impressed Raphael, then he would be allowed to fight for real.

When people met Rory Carver, they thought him weak. Raphael had to confess that he, too, had thought this at first. Rory was small for his age, and his shaggy appearance and large, puppy-like eyes made him look even younger. Skinny, too, and his boyish manner did not help matters. People saw his kindness and mistook it for naivete, saw his generosity and mistook it for weakness.

But while Rory was not strong, he was fast. Growing up, he had always been faster than any of the other kids. His size made him agile, too. He was quick and decisive, and with the right training, he would make a great Swordsman when he was older.

This thought terrified Raphael.

Not much scared him. Many who did not know him, and even many who did, thought that he was a man with no fear. But the idea of the innocent, earnest young boy who followed him around like a helpless puppy, becoming a deadly warrior, was truly frightening.

But still, better he trained the boy than some emotionless drill master who would crush Rory's gentle spirit with an iron fist. He smiled and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, feeling it rise and fall with Rory's jagged breaths.

"That is enough for today, Rory. We'll pick up again tomorrow."

Rory nodded eagerly, and wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his sleeve. "Am I getting any better, Raphael?"

"Of course you are."

He raised an eyebrow. "I still cannot lay a scratch on you, though."

A laugh came from the nearby stairs, where Cain sat with his shield in his hands. A deep rumble of a laugh, and then he was walking over with a smirk on his face.

"If you could land a scratch on him, Rory, then I think half of the militia would have to come and congratulate you."

Rory had never seen Raphael fight for real, he had only heard the stories that everyone told. He glanced between them.

"Are you truly that skilled?" Rory asked. "Is it true what they say about you? That your enemy dead are higher than any in living memory?

Before Raphael could reply, Cain threw his arm around his best friend's shoulder and winked at Rory. "He's the best there is," he said, and meant every word.

Rory grinned, a little unsure, as if he couldn't quite tell if Cain was joking or not. But he made his farewells, and scampered off to his duties.

Raphael sighed once Rory was out of earshot. "Why did you say that?"

Cain shrugged. "Because it is true, you know it is. And that boy deserves better than lies. He knows who you are."

Who you are. Only Cain spoke that way. When anyone else spoke of Raphael and his legendary skills, they did not say who. They said, this is what you are. As if he was no longer human, only a weapon, cursed to bear the sins of their hands. But to Cain, to his best friend, he was always only human. Who you are.

The Second SideWhere stories live. Discover now