As soon as the door to his home fell shut, the last drop he'd drained from his reservoir dried up, and the pain came rushing back. Osric staggered into the wall and slid down to the floor onto his knees. His right hand slapped down to support his weight as he retched and puked over the lobby floorboards.
Shite....
He'd been a fool, to call out Berrod like that. He'd been so desperate to measure up to his master, to test himself and prove to himself that he could be the sort of man that could safeguard his loved ones even without the resources of the Immortal Flames, that he'd lost sight of himself. He'd driven himself into a frenzy. He'd taken all of his fear and anger with him to the Ruins of Sil'Dih... to throw every erg of aether he could draw from his chakra at the monk he aspired to surpass.
Berrod Armstrong, who'd been at this for far longer than he had. Berrod Armstrong, whom he still could not match.
Would like as not never match.
The broken bones of his left arm shifted, sending a jolt of crackling agony tearing through his already-flaring nerves. He curled up into a little ball and shrieked, his voice ringing in his ears as it carried through the house.
The pain was just one more reminder of his folly. Forget the idiocy in trying to match Armstrong for power; why in the seven hells had he tried to stand his ground against a killing blow? He ought to have never tried. Three times, he'd seen Berrod draw forth his signature, those blue tendrils that surged and sparked up and down the man's arm... but he'd never borne the brunt
before. Not like this. Once, the highlander had pulled his punch; that and Osric's first lesson from Endemerrin, that display of hardened skin and flesh and bone, had been all that had saved the midlander. Later, he'd taken Berrod by surprise, dropped the big man before that power was brought to bear. This time, though... this time....
"You can't catch lightnin', hoss."
Here, now, he lifted his head and laughed, a wretched sound wracked by coughs. Blood shone on his teeth and dribbled down his chin as he grinned.
Just watch me, bastard. Just you ruttin' WATCH me.
"The thirds," he muttered aloud. "I need... the thirds...."
For now, though, he needed help. Berrod had thrown Osric over his shoulders and carried the small man home when it became evident that no one was on call, that their respective healers weren't coming for them anytime soon. Healing. He needed healing.
Die tryin', eh? Idiot.
No one was home. They'd have surely heard him by now and come to the rescue, as it were. No one was home.
Bed. I need t'get t'bed. Kanaria... she'll find me. She always finds me.
He should've trusted Mikh'a. He should've believed in himself. Berrod had told him as much, just now.
"Yer a monk, Osric. You don't answer ta anybody but God. An' if they try, destroy 'em. S'that simple."
That recognition, from a man he admired... that faith, that he'd forgotten these past few nights... when he heard those words, he'd known. He'd known that he'd erred, that he'd allowed this latest blow to morale to dishevel and unhinge him. He was better than that.
But first, there was the small matter of reaching his room with just one good arm when he lacked the strength to stand.
He forced himself upright, crawled as best he could by dragging himself along the floorboards, and slammed his hand down against the lip of the lobby desk, caught the edge and hauled himself towards the hall that led to the private chambers of the Dauntless. Each moment spent in movement was a moment spent in gut-wrenching pain... but the pain was worth it. The pain was a reminder of what he wanted. What he finally knew he wanted. What he'd known from the moment he'd left Swift's office.
I'm done with leashes.
Shite....
He'd been a fool, to call out Berrod like that. He'd been so desperate to measure up to his master, to test himself and prove to himself that he could be the sort of man that could safeguard his loved ones even without the resources of the Immortal Flames, that he'd lost sight of himself. He'd driven himself into a frenzy. He'd taken all of his fear and anger with him to the Ruins of Sil'Dih... to throw every erg of aether he could draw from his chakra at the monk he aspired to surpass.
Berrod Armstrong, who'd been at this for far longer than he had. Berrod Armstrong, whom he still could not match.
Would like as not never match.
The broken bones of his left arm shifted, sending a jolt of crackling agony tearing through his already-flaring nerves. He curled up into a little ball and shrieked, his voice ringing in his ears as it carried through the house.
The pain was just one more reminder of his folly. Forget the idiocy in trying to match Armstrong for power; why in the seven hells had he tried to stand his ground against a killing blow? He ought to have never tried. Three times, he'd seen Berrod draw forth his signature, those blue tendrils that surged and sparked up and down the man's arm... but he'd never borne the brunt
before. Not like this. Once, the highlander had pulled his punch; that and Osric's first lesson from Endemerrin, that display of hardened skin and flesh and bone, had been all that had saved the midlander. Later, he'd taken Berrod by surprise, dropped the big man before that power was brought to bear. This time, though... this time....
"You can't catch lightnin', hoss."
Here, now, he lifted his head and laughed, a wretched sound wracked by coughs. Blood shone on his teeth and dribbled down his chin as he grinned.
Just watch me, bastard. Just you ruttin' WATCH me.
"The thirds," he muttered aloud. "I need... the thirds...."
For now, though, he needed help. Berrod had thrown Osric over his shoulders and carried the small man home when it became evident that no one was on call, that their respective healers weren't coming for them anytime soon. Healing. He needed healing.
Die tryin', eh? Idiot.
No one was home. They'd have surely heard him by now and come to the rescue, as it were. No one was home.
Bed. I need t'get t'bed. Kanaria... she'll find me. She always finds me.
He should've trusted Mikh'a. He should've believed in himself. Berrod had told him as much, just now.
"Yer a monk, Osric. You don't answer ta anybody but God. An' if they try, destroy 'em. S'that simple."
That recognition, from a man he admired... that faith, that he'd forgotten these past few nights... when he heard those words, he'd known. He'd known that he'd erred, that he'd allowed this latest blow to morale to dishevel and unhinge him. He was better than that.
But first, there was the small matter of reaching his room with just one good arm when he lacked the strength to stand.
He forced himself upright, crawled as best he could by dragging himself along the floorboards, and slammed his hand down against the lip of the lobby desk, caught the edge and hauled himself towards the hall that led to the private chambers of the Dauntless. Each moment spent in movement was a moment spent in gut-wrenching pain... but the pain was worth it. The pain was a reminder of what he wanted. What he finally knew he wanted. What he'd known from the moment he'd left Swift's office.
I'm done with leashes.
![[Image: 1qVSsTp.png]](http://i.imgur.com/1qVSsTp.png)
