Everything hurt. That in itself was not unexpected, nor was it any sort of hindrance. It had been a few days since Berrod's outburst in Schism; days that had been occupied with intensive training and assisting the Resistance when needed. Atop the Circles of Answering Master Armstrong had pushed him again and again. The younger monk had been convinced that the training would be his end -- but Ronsen only showed Berrod that he was too strong for that.Â
Strong as he was, Berrod was not invincible. His left arm was still quite sore from the kicks it had been forced to endure -- not to count all the other blows that it had sustained during their training. Ronsen had done his best to provide some sort of healing...though time would have to do the rest. It wasn't a problem; Berrod was no stranger to soreness.Â
He was very grateful for the moment's respite on the third day's sunset; the skies darkened as the sun sank beneath the wall in the west and gave way to the sweeping cool of evening. The monks had taken a short trip from Schism to the Velodyna to bathe. Berrod was grateful -- the day's grime was heavy upon him and he stank terribly. His clothes were soaked with stale sweat that had become far too sour to ignore, and his body had gone a stage beyond musky to the unbearable. Master Armstrong fared no better, and grumbled about smelling like 'a minotaur's armpit'. Their clothing would need to be washed the following day and left in the sun to dry; fortunately they carried interim outfits in their packs.Â
The younger monk wasted no time in stripping down; he was still letting his hair down as he sloshed into the water. It was yet warm; the land below still afforded its heat -- night would come to claim it swiftly. The water was only waist-deep where he waded, but it did not stop him from submerging himself completely for just a moment. Refreshment coursed through him; every muscle sighed in relief. The outermost layer of filth was shorn from him as he emerged, and so began the active effort to wash it all off. Ronsen made his way a few yalms past, and set to bathing both his body and his gargantuan red mane.Â
For the life of him Berrod had no idea why his master kept it that long, it seemed like such a hassle. He'd never asked, either -- something like that was none of his business. In the end, he didn't care about it for more than a momentary wonder. His cause for concern, however, laid in the myriad scars that mapped Ronsen's body. Cuts from blades, claws, and even a few puncture marks were all painted onto the broad muscles of the older monk's back -- many of which Berrod did not remember being there previously. A frown pulled on his lips as the other man dipped below the water to get himself properly wet. It couldn't hurt to ask, really. The pair hadn't had much in the way of small talk, and the topic of scars was as good a starting point as any. He took a deep breath and steeled himself for the awkwardness to come.
Ronsen emerged from the water like a wild beast; his hair flung water in an arc that splashed quite a line in the river. Fortunately Berrod was not hit by it -- that would have been an irritating circumstance. The older monk had resumed washing himself off, when he caught Berrod staring. Granted, it was not an unsavory stare; Berrod had just been waiting to start the conversation and had simply forgotten that gaping at another person was rude. Still, Ronsen's face crumpled into irritated displeasure. "You're staring," He grunted, "Stop that, that's disgusting. You're disgusting."
It was Berrod's turn for a facial contortion. First, a moment of confusion, then a move to outrage as the other man's words registered. "What? No -- get over yourself, I'm not starin'." A moment's pause. "Well -- I am, but I was waitin' for you to come back up so I could ask you something about your body." His hand made a general gesture in the other man's direction.Â
The horrified look on his master's face both angered and entertained Berrod immensely -- though he hastily sought to clarify before things could escalate further. "I mean your scars. You've got a lot more than when we parted ways last. How'd you get them?"
That was enough to defuse the affronted and potentially accusatory air about the master, whose presence simmered as he simply continued bathing. "When we parted, I went to see to some unfinished business," He offered vaguely, "I'd say that you have too few scars." It was his turn to squint and stare -- which was evidently not at all a crime, "And they're all so light-coloured and faint. I have to strain my eyes to see them. I had so many more at your age."
"Yeah, well, maybe I'm just better at deflectin' harm than you were."
"Our training in the Circles would say otherwise."
Berrod had to chuckle at that. "Fair. You trained with the Fist, your trials were harder than mine, by far. I was just a refugee -- that and I had you and...and Gem to protect me."
It was strange to see how much Ronsen's face lit up at the mention of Berrod's mother's name. It was a painful-looking mix of fondness and sadness that made Berrod feel like a fist was closing around his heart. For just a moment, he wanted to smile...to remember her, to laugh with him about her. The woman he always had in his heart, mind and soul, even if he never mentioned her to another -- no she was too precious to share like that. Far too precious...
...which is why he sent a lashing splash of river-water in his master's direction. "Oi, oi! What's that look about, ah?! Don't be makin' that kinda face when I'm talkin' about her! Pervert!"
For a reply, Berrod received a well-aimed dousing, courtesy his master's sweeping palm. "Pervert?! Calling me that while you're staring at another man while he bathes! Gem was a dear friend and I wouldn't betray your father like that, even if he was dead!"Â
Berrod was going to kick even more water at Ronsen, but curiousity stilled his hand -- or leg, in that case. "...what was he like? My father. Gem always talked about him, but she was biased, you know? I only see his face in dreams, and I don't remember what it looks like when I wake up."Â
The older monk scowed and grunted. "He was annoying, just like you. He was a proper Ala Mhigan, though -- dark skin, bleached hair. Strong. Everyone was surprised when you took after your mother."
That fist around Berrod's heart closed tighter. How he hated to yearn after what was lost. "...did you get on well?"
"No, we didn't. People thought we were always fighting over your mother, but it wasn't like that. They were short sighted and foolish. We just clashed on a lot of things. I respected him greatly, regardless."
Berrod had opened his mouth to ask more, but Ronsen lifted a forbidding hand. "Finish your bath, and let me finish mine. I'm not going to talk about these things while standing naked here with you on an empty stomach. I'll cook us something and you can ask all you like. It's about time you did, too -- you were a damned constipated young buck."Â
While the younger monk suffered the urge to clam up out of spite, he was truly desperate for Ronsen's accounts of his father, and of their life before. It was something to make him feel even more attached to the cause, something to fuel his fists as the worked toward liberation. It was something that would make it easier to join in on conversations with the twins about family.
"You got yourself a deal."
Strong as he was, Berrod was not invincible. His left arm was still quite sore from the kicks it had been forced to endure -- not to count all the other blows that it had sustained during their training. Ronsen had done his best to provide some sort of healing...though time would have to do the rest. It wasn't a problem; Berrod was no stranger to soreness.Â
He was very grateful for the moment's respite on the third day's sunset; the skies darkened as the sun sank beneath the wall in the west and gave way to the sweeping cool of evening. The monks had taken a short trip from Schism to the Velodyna to bathe. Berrod was grateful -- the day's grime was heavy upon him and he stank terribly. His clothes were soaked with stale sweat that had become far too sour to ignore, and his body had gone a stage beyond musky to the unbearable. Master Armstrong fared no better, and grumbled about smelling like 'a minotaur's armpit'. Their clothing would need to be washed the following day and left in the sun to dry; fortunately they carried interim outfits in their packs.Â
The younger monk wasted no time in stripping down; he was still letting his hair down as he sloshed into the water. It was yet warm; the land below still afforded its heat -- night would come to claim it swiftly. The water was only waist-deep where he waded, but it did not stop him from submerging himself completely for just a moment. Refreshment coursed through him; every muscle sighed in relief. The outermost layer of filth was shorn from him as he emerged, and so began the active effort to wash it all off. Ronsen made his way a few yalms past, and set to bathing both his body and his gargantuan red mane.Â
For the life of him Berrod had no idea why his master kept it that long, it seemed like such a hassle. He'd never asked, either -- something like that was none of his business. In the end, he didn't care about it for more than a momentary wonder. His cause for concern, however, laid in the myriad scars that mapped Ronsen's body. Cuts from blades, claws, and even a few puncture marks were all painted onto the broad muscles of the older monk's back -- many of which Berrod did not remember being there previously. A frown pulled on his lips as the other man dipped below the water to get himself properly wet. It couldn't hurt to ask, really. The pair hadn't had much in the way of small talk, and the topic of scars was as good a starting point as any. He took a deep breath and steeled himself for the awkwardness to come.
Ronsen emerged from the water like a wild beast; his hair flung water in an arc that splashed quite a line in the river. Fortunately Berrod was not hit by it -- that would have been an irritating circumstance. The older monk had resumed washing himself off, when he caught Berrod staring. Granted, it was not an unsavory stare; Berrod had just been waiting to start the conversation and had simply forgotten that gaping at another person was rude. Still, Ronsen's face crumpled into irritated displeasure. "You're staring," He grunted, "Stop that, that's disgusting. You're disgusting."
It was Berrod's turn for a facial contortion. First, a moment of confusion, then a move to outrage as the other man's words registered. "What? No -- get over yourself, I'm not starin'." A moment's pause. "Well -- I am, but I was waitin' for you to come back up so I could ask you something about your body." His hand made a general gesture in the other man's direction.Â
The horrified look on his master's face both angered and entertained Berrod immensely -- though he hastily sought to clarify before things could escalate further. "I mean your scars. You've got a lot more than when we parted ways last. How'd you get them?"
That was enough to defuse the affronted and potentially accusatory air about the master, whose presence simmered as he simply continued bathing. "When we parted, I went to see to some unfinished business," He offered vaguely, "I'd say that you have too few scars." It was his turn to squint and stare -- which was evidently not at all a crime, "And they're all so light-coloured and faint. I have to strain my eyes to see them. I had so many more at your age."
"Yeah, well, maybe I'm just better at deflectin' harm than you were."
"Our training in the Circles would say otherwise."
Berrod had to chuckle at that. "Fair. You trained with the Fist, your trials were harder than mine, by far. I was just a refugee -- that and I had you and...and Gem to protect me."
It was strange to see how much Ronsen's face lit up at the mention of Berrod's mother's name. It was a painful-looking mix of fondness and sadness that made Berrod feel like a fist was closing around his heart. For just a moment, he wanted to smile...to remember her, to laugh with him about her. The woman he always had in his heart, mind and soul, even if he never mentioned her to another -- no she was too precious to share like that. Far too precious...
...which is why he sent a lashing splash of river-water in his master's direction. "Oi, oi! What's that look about, ah?! Don't be makin' that kinda face when I'm talkin' about her! Pervert!"
For a reply, Berrod received a well-aimed dousing, courtesy his master's sweeping palm. "Pervert?! Calling me that while you're staring at another man while he bathes! Gem was a dear friend and I wouldn't betray your father like that, even if he was dead!"Â
Berrod was going to kick even more water at Ronsen, but curiousity stilled his hand -- or leg, in that case. "...what was he like? My father. Gem always talked about him, but she was biased, you know? I only see his face in dreams, and I don't remember what it looks like when I wake up."Â
The older monk scowed and grunted. "He was annoying, just like you. He was a proper Ala Mhigan, though -- dark skin, bleached hair. Strong. Everyone was surprised when you took after your mother."
That fist around Berrod's heart closed tighter. How he hated to yearn after what was lost. "...did you get on well?"
"No, we didn't. People thought we were always fighting over your mother, but it wasn't like that. They were short sighted and foolish. We just clashed on a lot of things. I respected him greatly, regardless."
Berrod had opened his mouth to ask more, but Ronsen lifted a forbidding hand. "Finish your bath, and let me finish mine. I'm not going to talk about these things while standing naked here with you on an empty stomach. I'll cook us something and you can ask all you like. It's about time you did, too -- you were a damned constipated young buck."Â
While the younger monk suffered the urge to clam up out of spite, he was truly desperate for Ronsen's accounts of his father, and of their life before. It was something to make him feel even more attached to the cause, something to fuel his fists as the worked toward liberation. It was something that would make it easier to join in on conversations with the twins about family.
"You got yourself a deal."
![[Image: tumblr_ojgu7zoaag1robwlio1_540.png]](https://68.media.tumblr.com/80be4033cdf57fb6268473ef9ce37db6/tumblr_ojgu7zoaag1robwlio1_540.png)
