Fanfic:The Way We Are
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From the moment he had arrived, Johan had thought only about leaving, about just walking away and never coming back. It didn’t matter where. Anywhere would do. Anywhere but here. The thoughts came mostly at night, whilst he was lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the snores of his roommate, himself unable to sleep and think of anything but getting away as fast as he could.
It should have been so easy.
No one would miss him.
No would notice.
That boy? Who was he again? When had he come? Was he even still here?
There was no point in staying, because all he was going to do was going to fail. There was no doubt about that. He was miles behind all the others. They had skill. They had been taught how to use a sword before they could even bloody walk, whereas he was stuttering and stumbling, tripping over his own two feet. They had a passion and belief in what they did. They wanted nothing else. But Johan-? His thoughts were miles away, back at the Rahad. He’d only come here for them, for his family, and what an epic disappointment he was proving to be. It was better to quit whilst he was ahead, find something different and not force himself to face the inevitable. He knew that the words were coming; knew that some Warder or Gaidin - one of the trainers- would pull him aside and say that they knew he was trying, they really did, but, sorry, they were really sorry, it was never going to work. He wasn’t good enough. There, there. They were sure he’d find something else.
It really would be easy just to go.
Leaving made the most sense. It was what anyone who had the slightest bit of sanity would do, especially if, like him, they had absolutely no chance of succeeding. It was simply never going to work. Continuing would be crazy. Yet somewhere, somehow he had apparently lost all common sense and was now toeing that line of craziness. There was a large part of him that didn’t want to leave, just in case; just in case of the small chance that maybe, just maybe he might be able to get somewhere after all. But it was never going to happen. Not in million years.
He’d decided that tonight would be the night in which he’d sneak off - get away before he could be sent away - but, instead, he was still sat on his bed long after his roommate had fallen asleep, his knees pulled up to his chest, just thinking, his gaze staring at nothing... Not that he could see anything in the dark.
Hours passed, and only then did he move. It was an effort, his body and limbs still aching from the day’s training. He had more bruises than he could count. He always ended up face down in the dirt more often than not. But that was going to change. He was going to figure something out. He didn’t care if he got caught. It would just mean the ending stayed the same: you couldn’t, after all, get in trouble if you were in trouble already.
Johan didn’t know what, exactly, he planned. Somehow, though, he managed to sneak out without getting caught, and then he just walked. And walked and walked. He might have been walking in circles. It didn’t matter. Walking was something. Walking was doing. Walking was an action. Walking would get him to a destination sooner than if he just sat still, did nothing, and waited.
He’d brought his practice sword with him. Protection. Just in case. Not that he could see himself battering some guardsman over the head with it.
The world was a different place in the dark. He didn’t know whereabouts in the grounds he was, but there were trees and it was quiet. No one was about. No one, he hoped, would be about for a while yet.
He moved, then, through a series of sword drills. It was something else to do. He might as well try.
It was all about the Void, they said, all about finding the calmness and the stillness to be able to perceive things better, and usually it was. Usually, despite the knocks and the hits, the bruises and cuts, he found it calming. Going through the forms, no matter how graceful and inelegant he was, helped him to think, to find a balance, but not this time.
He struck out at a tree, and each time he struck, each time a blow landed, he imagined himself cleaving his opponent’s head in two. The first time it was his father for never being there, the second time it was the man he had killed for breaking the rules and making this happen, and then it was everyone who had ever said he was not good enough. The faces blurred, turned into those of monsters with bulls’ horns and eagles’ beaks. There were no measured moves, no steadiness or calmness to it. He simply hacked and slashed, letting his rage, his hopelessness, his feelings guide each and every blow. Somehow, though, the forms remained, held, as he spun, twisted, and danced away from his imaginary enemy. It was muscle memory more than anything else: hours’ worth of practice. Even before he had come to the Tower he had trained with the Warder every day on the way from Ebou Dar. He hadn’t even known how to grip the sword, had barely known which way was up, but now his grasp was firm. Now he could hold the weighted sword without his arm aching within minutes. In some ways, it wasn’t that different to the knife, and he had practiced that since he could walk.
Oh, it hurt. His moves aggravated the day’s bruises and cuts, the old hurts, and it pushed him past the point of exhaustion, but it felt good. It felt like a release of sorts. It was what he needed. There was no one to see, no one to judge, no one to beat him down. He didn’t have to think or be conscious of what he was doing. One move simply flowed into another. He threw himself to the ground, ducked and rolled, back on his feet in less than two seconds as he moved to chop at his opponent’s legs. He feinted to the left and then to the right, like he had seen others doing, the moves coming naturally.
Clack, clack, clack, each blow landing. The sound was almost rhythmic. It became steadier as the anger burned away, and the fears, doubts, and worries along with it. He didn’t think; he just did. He moved when he should have, didn’t trip over his feet, didn’t open his guard, didn’t try to be five steps ahead instead of one. The enemy was losing. For once.
It was nice not to have to worry or think. One last blow and his opponent fell, and Johan stepped back and took a breath, and reality returned. His chest was heaving, sweat dripping down his skin. He’d long ago abandoned his shirt. They’d know if he came back covered in a dirt.
He pushed a hand through his hair, and then he was moving again, flying back into action, cutting, thrusting, and stabbing. He wasn’t going to let them make him leave. He was going to stay. For his family. For his brothers and sisters. He needed this. He just hadn’t realised how much. He hadn’t wanted to think about it.
They weren’t going to make him leave.
More time passed, the sky lightening, and then finally he came to a true stop.
There was a crack, a twig snapping, forcing him back to reality. He held his breath, heart pounding, eyes searching. He’d known all along that he shouldn’t be here, up past curfew, but here was better than there, and ‘there’ was far, far, far away. He could have kept on walking, leaving the Tower and the town behind. They’d understand, he was sure.
A rabbit crossed his path, and he released the breath. He waited a second longer, ears straining, and then he grabbed his shirt and headed back for the new day, breaking into a run. He had to be back before they found out. Even he got caught, the new faith would be – was - worth it. He was going to do this.
He just had to try harder.
It wouldn’t be easy.
