Ripple Effect - 5. Forged in Blood and Iron: Experimental Phase One, Take Two

The boy was short and chubby, a mess of barely coordinated limbs racing across the room to where his human caretakers had set out the mid meal. Kneeling down on the floor, the tips of bare toes just peeking out at the ends of his too long pants, he scooped up fistfuls of food in his fat little hands, tucking it away in his wide open mouth, ignoring the woman who hit him in the arm with a spoon she then tried to hand to him.

Drogan watched unseen from a safe distance. Well, it was an improvement over the squalling, squirming larva from before; though the ability to stand, move and speak some was hardly much of an improvement. It was so hard to see how it was ever going to prove useful.

He hoped this wasn't a mistake.

---

He took notes, as he usually did, lots of them, collected and bound in leather volumes for future reference. He interrogated the Roamers he had brought here, over and over, perhaps past the point of irritation though they would not be so with him. He couldn't relay on always having other people around, that wouldn't be feasible; if he was going to keep a human, he needed to know how to care for a human.

It was complicated, more so than he'd thought. So many rules, so many requirements, so many pitfalls. People all over the world managed it, multiple times even, so surely he could learn to do the same.

The boy was outside now, with his caretakers, most of the group; they had a ball they were tossing around between them. The boy toddled more than ran, the ball was too big for him to hold properly, and when he tried to throw in turn it didn't go far.

A long way to go. Long, long, long way to go.

The boy's mouth was open, eyes crinkled shut. At least someone was happy.

---

Late at night, walking back to his private study, he came upon the boy alone outside the door, trying to peep into the room.

It wasn't the first time, though he usually never caught the boy at it; just sensed eyes watching from around corners, small quiet footsteps sneaking away when someone called for him. It had been easy enough to ignore, it was part of why the hill tribesmen were there in the first place, to deal with the bothersome aspects until the boy was ready to become something of interest. It was too late at night this time, no one was awake, and rousing someone would be too much trouble; best to deal with it himself, then.

Drogan made little sound when he moved, he was able to get very close undetected. “What are you doing there?”

A shock started from the base of his neck, down the length of his spine, pulling him inward. The boy's head turned, the pale blue eye visible over his shoulder, wide and staring.

“Shouldn't you be asleep?” Children needed a lot of sleep, as he was told, a whole night's worth if you want them healthy. One day, Drogan could fix that, make adjustments, but for now original nature had to rule.

The boy turned around, standing still and nervous; his head tilted down, eyes taking quick peaks up before lowering again. Drogan wondered, idly, what the boy knew of him, what he had been told; he had not instructed anything particular, just space.

“Speak, boy, I know you can do so.”

It took a minute, and a whisper, “Can't sleep.” The boy's chubby hand brushed through his hair, pushing it back from his face where it had grown too long; fingers moved down to unconsciously scratch at the scar tissue ringing his throat.

Oh. Oh, right. Bad dreams, he was warned about those. Now, what was he supposed to do about it? He didn't know, wasn't sure he ever actually asked.

“Here,” Drogan opened the study door, every wall holding books from floor to ceiling, all the knowledge he accumulated to undergo this endeavor. He plucked one at random from the shelf, pushing it into the boy's arms. “There. Reading, it should help.”

The chosen volume was huge, near as big as the boy's torso, he could barely hold on to it. Drogan checked the spine: Detailed Account of the Histories of the Earth Court, Northern Territories. That was probably a little dense for a child with a dim grasp of letters (also normal, he was told).

He took the book back, replacing it with a different, slimmer one, “There. That has pictures.” Of weapons, but children liked pictures, didn't they?

The boy could hold that one easier, turning it over and squinting at it curiously; that probably also made it the better choice. “Well, there you go now,” he put a hand on the boy's back, fingers curled inward to hide his claws; he still had to keep careful control of his strength pushing him back into the hallway, “Run along.”

Days later his wandering crossed paths with the boy again, this time sitting in the middle of an empty corridor, the borrowed book opened in his lap. This was the time of day his minders were occupied with chores and thus the time the boy often spent stalking him. Curious in spite of himself, Drogan turned into the corridor. “What are you doing there?”

The boy glanced up, this time it was the brown eye he saw. A finger rose, pointing to the wall opposite. An antique weapon hung on display as they were all around the manor; they belonged to warriors who served him and fell in battle, people appreciated such memorials for some reason.

“Yes, what of it?” When his eyes turned down again he saw the boy now pointing down at the book, and a large charcoal drawing of the same weapon.

“Yes...very good,” he frowned at the boy, who'd lost his nerves at some point and looked back directly, a strange open smile on his face. “Do you know what its called?”

The boy turned back to the page, his finger finding the word right away, laboriously sounding it out, “Kho – pesh.”

“Yes, that's right,” Now what was the common advice in these situations? Reward with praise to encourage repetition and improvement? It was worth a shot, “Good job.”

There was that smile again, wider this time, revealing a missing tooth.

He scrambled to his feet, the book tucked under an arm, running down to the other end of the hallway; was he going to the next weapon then?

Drogan started on his way but paused when the sound of footsteps stopped. The boy stood at the corner, looking back at him, all but bouncing in place.

Well...

...There hadn't been anything too important, he supposed he could spare a few minutes.

---

He ran better now, stronger and faster, steadier on his feet. He caught the ball consistently, with ease, threw it back at greater distances. He started climbing on everything, and proved good at evading capture when properly motivated by distasteful tasks.

Progress, though.

---

“I finished this.”

Drogan glanced up at the weapons manual placed in the center of his desk. “Finished how, exactly?”

“I read it.”

“But do you know it?”

A nod.

“Located the rest of the weapons, have you?”

Another nod, proud and confident.

“Well, good then.” Yet the boy remained, “...Is there something you wanted?”

“Can I have another?”

“You want another book?”

A nod, almost eager.

“All right then,” he had not been expecting this, but perhaps it was a good thing. The boy needed smarts as well as strength, he just hadn't seen the point in developing it until he was certain it would retain. Well, no reason not to start early, he could consider it a test run.

“Here,” he handed over one sitting close to hand, pulled out not long ago for his own reference, “Its aether sigils. You'll be getting several, in time, so I suppose you should read up.”

---

“Can I get this one?”

“Let me see... No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don't need it. Why do you want it?”

“It looks cool.”

“Its not about aesthetic, its functionality.”

“So, what does it do?”

“It allows one to live under water.”

“Why would you need to?”

“Because you serve someone who requires it.”

“Like who?”

“Someone who isn't me.”

“What about this?”

“It goes on your eyes, switches them to aether vision. You don't want it.”

“What about-”

“Give me the book.”

“What?”

“Give it to me.”

“Ow!”

“Go away.”

---

“Who wrote this?”

“I did.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Its my dark secret, don't tell anyone.”

“What?”

“That I'm smart.”

“Why'd you write it?”

“To collect the information for my use. And, apparently, for nosy children to read.”

“Did you draw these?”

“Of course.”

“I like them.”

“So you have said.”

“Why did you do the ones you don't need?”

“So I know what they are. Being able to look at an opponent and at a glance know what they are capable of. Useful, no?”

“Is that what I should do?”

“You ask a lot of questions, you know that?”

“Because you're the only one who answers them.”

“Is that so? And what do your guardians tell you?”

“Nothing.”

“They must say something.”

“That I'm special. But they don't say anything else, because its not their place, its yours.”

“Hmm. Well, I never told them to be quiet.”

“...so, am I?”

“Are you what?”

“Special?”

“No. Not yet, anyway. You will be.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Will that be all then?”

“...so which ones am I getting?”

“Oh, I don't know, I'm still making up my mind.”

“Why?”

“Because there are so many fucking possibilities. I am taking my time.”

“But don't you have one?”

“Give me the book.”

“Are you going to hit me with it?”

“Why are you smiling? Give me the book... There, that one.”

“Time stop?”

“Its fairly standard, with a few exceptions.”

“Why?”

“Because I don't die, and its inconvenient to me when you do.”

“What are the exceptions?”

“Oh, I don't know... Like Lynk, he needs a break from being anchored to the world. Its a balancing act, too much in either direction throws the whole thing off.”

“Who's Lynk?”

“Oh, you'll meet him eventually.”

“Yeah?”

“He's not going to like you.”

“...why not?”

“Because he doesn't like me.”

“Why not?”

“Where to begin... Well, its in another book, you can have it when you can read better.”

“I can read.”

“Able, but imperfect. You need to improve.”

“...So, what time will you pick?”

“I haven't decided yet.”

“Like, when I'm old? Like everyone here?”

“That's a bit too old.”

“Like...you old?”

“How old do you think I am?”

“...I don't know.”

“Older than you will ever be.”

“So, what else?”

“I might make you mute.”

“What's that?”

“Maybe you'll find out.”

---

Time could be measured in books exchanged. The boy had his own chair now in Drogan's private study, one he pulled close to the desk one day and never moved back; he tended to kneel on the chair, arms braced on the desk, mismatched eyes always forward, always watching. The questions were a good thing, he later decided; it showed the boy was bright and engaged and he remembered the things he learned, parroted them back whether asked to or not.

The boy grew taller, less chubby, more coordinated and agile. His physical performance continued to improve in all respects, aware of his evaluating audience he worked hard to impress. Praise worked wonders, it seemed.

The caretakers had been old when he brought them on, that was why they were there: widowed, retired, too elderly to be of much use to the tribe, here they could serve one final time. He didn't bother paying attention to them, after getting what information from them he could they had faded into the background, not accounted into his tracking of time. He knew when the first one died, he arranged for their remains to be sent home as was the agreement, to be buried with their family for whatever reason mortals found important. He didn't bother keeping count, just held to his end each time it occurred.

The boy stood beside him, quiet and somber, eyes turned down for the first time in a long while. All of a sudden it seemed, they were now alone.

---

Drogan's eyes opened, his internal clock telling him it had been four days, proof he'd been neglecting his own maintenance of late. The dawn light shone through the windows, catching the labradorite chips in the stone ceiling of his bedroom.

He moved his leg and hit an unexpected warm lump; he sat upright, looking down.

The boy was curled up at the foot of the bed, fast asleep; he'd pulled the bottom of the blanket up over himself, hands folded under his head, a book lay open on the bed next to him.

Drogan frowned, tapping the boy with his foot until his eye was opened and visible, the brown one this time, “What are you doing in here?”

The boy was slower to coherence than he himself was; he rose, groggy, rubbing his eyes, looking at Drogan with an open amazement he felt certain would've been muted otherwise, “...you're awake.”

“Yes of course I am, what did you expect?”

The boy let out a breath, frustrated, “Well, I didn't know. I didn't know you slept.”

“Of course I do,” but he supposed the boy wouldn't know, had never been present to see it; any gap in knowledge was his own responsibility, one he would have to rectify immediately. “Have you been here the whole time?”

The boy didn't answer, but the look on his face said it was true, caught between anger and embarrassment. He glared down at his hands fisted in his lap.

“Why are you in here?”

The boy took a minute, thinking, and his shoulders sagged, “Its just...its quiet.”

Information gathered suggested children needed people around, especially when they're young, and he was still young, only nine. It wasn't feasible in the long run and the boy would have to adjust and learn to deal, but it was still early, still new, and sudden rather than gradual. Perhaps some – compassion, would not be out of place?

“Do you want new guardians? I can have a new set of people brought here for you, if you want.”

The boy's eyes widened, struggling with a response, “I – no,” then, shaking his head, “...I don't know?”

He might've gone ahead and done it anyway, but the boy's first response had been a no; if he meant that, all the better. “Well. If you change your mind, merely say the word.”

The boy yawned, stretching arms above his head, brushing sleep mussed hair out of his face; it had gotten too long, again, and he supposed it fell to him now to amputate the excess strands. Too much work, that, and he wondered if he could make some adjustments; not take the hair away, just make it more efficient?

Drogan glanced down at the nearby book, opened to his own sketch of the Lord of Ironhill's glyph, “The Earth Court, Volume One. This is not what I gave you.”

“I finished War in Dahakr'l.”

“And so you helped yourself?"

“Yeah. Sorry?”

“No, don't be.” That one contained more vital information than just general knowledge, he had thought to leave it aside until the subject could be better focused on. It likely didn't matter, they'd have to go through it all again later, anyway.

“You have not been in here the whole time, yes? You are maintaining yourself – eating, you have been eating?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Very good,” the caretakers left the boy with sense as well as basic living skills, “And you need to do so again. So, let us at it.”

He followed the boy to the kitchens, watched him put together a first meal, even requested a dish himself.

“You eat?”

“I don't have to, but I can. Sometimes I like to.” The fare was simple, as to be expected of nomadic cuisine.

“What about sleep?”

“I need it every so often. Not as often as you.”

The boy seemed affronted, “I have never slept four days.”

“I had been putting it off, it caught up with me.”

“Why do you need to sleep?”

“Same reason you do, to replenish energy. But I have more and can run longer than you.” And before he was done, the boy's body would work better as well.

“What happens if you don't?”

“It takes longer to do things and I turn into an asshole.”

“Could you ever, like, get so bad you can't do things?”

“No one lets it get to that point.”

“But what if-”

He thought he knew what this was about, maybe. He gentled his voice, “I'm not going to die.”

The boy stared down at his plate, “I didn't know,” he said, “Didn't know how it works. You never gave me that book.”

“As I know how my body functions, I have never felt the need to have one. But you know what, I'll write it, just for you. You can read it when I'm done.”

The boy's eyes stayed fixed on his plate, but he could see the smile at the corner of his mouth.

---

He supposed it was now up to him to supervise the boy's physical training. It was not what he had intended, not until the boy was older, modified and could take more of a beating, when he would be of interest; all the plans he'd made were with that in mind, and it left him at an immediate loss.

The boy was not helpful either, “Can I play with weapons?”

“No. You are far too fragile for that.”

Such disappointment, “I am not fragile.”

“For my training you are.” He wasn't willing to risk more accidents, more setbacks, this was taking long enough as it was. “I will find a routine for you, give me time. For now though, let us run a few tests. You know the statue over yonder?” In the shape of a featureless man, sword raised and a sigil carved in its chest.

“Unfettered strength,” the boy glanced up, that proud gleam in his eye.

“Yes. Very good. You run, reach the statue, and you win.”

A frown, “Are you going to race?”

“That would hardly be a test. Merely arrive, that will be enough.”

The boy seemed uncertain if he should feel insulted, and finally just shrugged, “All right.”

Naturally the grounds had long ago been saturated, less a door than a red ocean he could sink into and resurface where he liked. He timed it just right, popping out of the ground in front of the statue just as the boy came to it, colliding into him and falling backwards, victory snatched away at the last second.

“Oops. Seems you lost.”

The boy stared up at him, wide eyed, “You cheated!”

Drogan barked a harsh laugh, “Did I? By whose reckoning?” he shook his head, “Life is not a game, boy, the battlefield less so. There are no rules. People do whatever they can, to survive, to pull ahead, and you do not get to cry foul simply because you can not do the same.” He held out a hand, mindful of the claws, and pulled the boy to his feet, “Build your own skills. Anticipate. Counter. Be better than them.”

The boy was still petulant, rubbing a sore spot on the back of his head, “But you – you're a god. How am I supposed to counter that?”

“I suggest you learn how to, its going to be necessary. I will make many enemies, and they will be your enemies, too.”

“They can't hurt me. Its, like, against the law, or something.”

“Who told you that?”

“Jet.”

“Well, he shouldn't have. Natural law is about people, and you are not people. Imprints are exempt, you can be killed on sight.”

The boy's eyes widened again, at a loss for words.

“Don't be too concerned. Even Natural Law permits me to respond with deadly force when what is mine is threatened or harmed, that now includes you.”

The boy's worry didn't abate, “What does that mean?”

“That even if a mortal man were to overstep-”

“Not that. The other thing. Imprint, what's that mean?”

It was not the first time he'd heard the term, clearly, even if no one ever bothered to explain. That was an oversight; the boy should know, should understand what he was now.

“All right. I'll get you a book,” though the one he authored, sitting in a desk drawer, was less a general knowledge tome, more a blueprint for...

“Actually, no. Give me a day, I will find you a copy of a different book, not by me. Should be far more helpful.”

“Why not yours?”

“I am not above admitting when one has done better than I. But never mind that, clearly we need to work on teaching you to think on your feet.”

---

It was getting easier now to see how the boy would grow up into something possibly useful, much more so than in the beginning.

The boy figured out quick enough that he couldn't see while he traveled in the red and made his plan; he waited for the disappearance, veering off course to hide. Drogan of course knew where he was, they were connected though the boy didn't know it, didn't know how to tap it. No one else would have that advantage and so he let it go, played along when the boy cleverly redirected his focus with a few tossed stones, following the fake sound trail. When he returned and found the boy climbed atop the statue, sitting astride its metal shoulders with arms folded on its head, a wide cocky grin on his face, Drogan only offered congratulations.

---

It was a difficult balance to maintain, and it only got harder as more time went by. If he disappeared from the world for too long someone would wonder why, might drop by suddenly, start sniffing around; going out in search of something interesting would split his attention when he needed to be focused. So when an opportunity presented itself to make an appearance, he knew he had to accept.

“So, where are you going?” the boy asked over first meal.

“Dahakr'l.”

“Which tribe?”

“Both of them,” he shrugged at the boy's odd look, “The nature of my gift, I don't have to take sides.”

“How long are you going for?”

“I don't know. Conflict can last anywhere from a few weeks to more than a year. Depends how much pride is involved.”

The boy pushed through his food with a spoon; his other arm kept his head propped up, eyes down, “Okay. Have fun.”

“You'll be fine.” The boy was fourteen now, more than old enough to survive alone a while, “Stick to your routine, feed yourself, read. I'll be back soon enough.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

He paid very little notice, until it was time to go and the boy's sullen face just wouldn't leave his mind. Aggravating, and before he knew it he was back on the manor grounds, pushing open the door to the boy's private suite, interrupting him reading on the bed.

“Would you prefer to come with me, then?”

The boy straightened his expression quick, but for just a brief moment he was clearly happy.

---

“What are you looking at?”

The boy's mouth was open, watching him adjusting the cuffs on his peasant disguise.

He couldn't handle the red road, not now, so they would have to gatehop. Drogan knew some private ways, sparsely populated but nothing was guaranteed, discretion was called for.

It was the first time he'd wore the mortal mask in front of the boy, presence diminished behind a conduit. Had he known this was possible, or was it another surprise? Drogan spread his arms, “Well?”

The boy's lips pressed together, he lowered his head; after a moment, his shoulders started to shake.

“Oh, come off,” he cuffed the boy upside the head, hearing the hollow thunk of his heavy garnet ring hitting the boy's skull. The boy just laughed.

---

“Come here, boy. I want you to see this.” He knew he'd felt a slight draw to this place, it had just been a matter of finding its source.

The boy was tired, Drogan hadn't counted on his frail constitution prolonging the trip. He had also not counted on the way the boy reacted to the world, with wonder and wariness all at once. He'd never been off the manor grounds that he could remember, perhaps that had a greater effect than he'd thought.

“What is it?”

A cleared circle cut into an open field, grass removed and trampled flat; a dark spill was still visible in the dirt, several hours old.

“Someone dueled here.”

“Why?”

“There's no way I can know,” he could explore the blood spill, it would tell him who died and how, the why behind it was beyond his sight. “Do you see this though?”

He directed the boy's attention to the stone slab half a foot from where they stood; a rare permanent altar, but as this looked to be a designated dueling ring it did make sense. A small amount of blood dotted the slab, the opponents' cut palms likely, a wide spread though not universal practice; a corked bottle of alcohol and a grilled piece of beef, still bloody, were left as well.

“That, my boy, is for me.”

“For you?”

“Aye. An offering. Or should I say a bribe. Please don't come here, O Berserker, please don't meddle in our affairs.”

“So, this keeps you away?”

“It does nothing of the sort. I can do what I please in my own domain. They merely hope that I will be moved to spare them my horrible madness.”

The boy looked up, “You're not mad.”

“No I am not. Though I hardly need to be to make others mad. Which, common misconceptions aside, is not what I do.”

“Why don't they want you to come?”

“Because they are very small men, and very frightened.”

“Do you ever stay away?”

“Most of the time. There is little benefit to me and no real interest. Besides, I rather enjoy my gifts.”

The boy stepped forward cautiously, glancing back as though to ask permission. He picked up the bottle, uncorked it, sniffed.

“Go on. Drink.”

He did and coughed hard, mouth opened, spitting the liquid onto the ground.

A laugh; it took a moment to realize it was his own. Drogan pulled himself together, “Yes, well. I suppose you never have had alcohol.”

“People drink that?”

“All the time. It allows for intoxication, which I'm given to understand is a very pleasant sensation.” A pause, “If its something you wish to experience yourself, best do it quickly. By the time I am done it will no longer be possible.”

“Why not?”

“A side effect of an invulnerable system, its invulnerable to everything.”

The boy took one last sniff before re-corking it and putting it back. He kept grimacing, tongue moving around in and out of his mouth, like he was trying to peel the taste from it; Drogan felt another laugh inexplicably bubbling up and swallowed it down.

“The meat is yours if you want it. You should sleep. I would like to arrive by tomorrow.”

The boy's eyes scanned the field, thoughtful, “I still don't really know what you do,” he said, “I read it, descriptions, lot of them. But I don't really understand it.”

He put a hand on the boy's shoulder, by now he knew how to mind claws and strength, it was automatic, “You'll get a chance to see. Soon enough.”

---

Dahakr'l was safer than most places, unequivocally his territory; no one would question his being there, few would bother seeking him out there, and if they did the boy could be hidden away. They knew, the tribes people, one look at the odd child in his company, the scar on his neck, and they knew without having to be told; but they would keep his secrets, he was certain. They took the boy away first thing, redressing him in their own garb that kept the harsh sun at bay. The new clothing fit him as well, in a way it never did, highlighting yet something else Drogan had not taken into account, something he would have to do better in the future.

He stayed in the temple as usual, an open gazebo and his carved sandstone throne in the center; the mortal mask stripped away, conduit off his finger, relaxed in his second home. He'd expected a night of peace, but found himself opening his eyes again after only a half hour, roused by the sound of movement.

The boy had seated himself on the floor, he had a ceramic bowl of food with him, eating with his fingers. “I thought you'd stay by the fire.”

The boy shrugged, quiet at first, but then said, “I can't understand them anyway.”

“Oh. That's right,” more oversight; people were so complicated, so many little details, “I'll find one of those for you who can translate. Or do it myself, if I must. Though you should learn their tongue as well. Like the hill tribes, these are very much my people, and you will deal with them frequently.”

“Why are they your people?”

“Because they choose to be so, and I accept.”

“Do you ever not accept?”

“I have not, but it has happened.”

“Why would it happen? I mean, like, what would they have to do to make you leave?”

“Well, I suppose if they just didn't need me anymore. Or if they were to kill you, for some reason. Then there would be no one left alive to need me.”

The boy nodded, seeming satisfied and continued eating.

“You've never outgrown that habit of asking too many questions.”

A smirk, “You don't complain much. Anymore.”

“Yes, you have worn me down with your stubborn persistence. Try not to look too pleased with yourself.” The boy's smile only grew.

---

There were a few children the boy's age around, which turned into an asset when Drogan saw them running drills. Though the boy was loath to spend time with anyone else, he was thrilled to finally get to learn to use a staff.

The boy wasn't as good as his peers, but that was to be expected. He tried hard and learned fast, and that was important. He enjoyed himself, swinging the staff around, pulling himself out of the dirt and knocking someone else into it, he enjoyed it all and that was even more important.

“You're not training him yet?” he was asked by one of the elders.

“He wouldn't survive my training, not as he is.”

“But that will change?”

There was no point in denial, “I need the opportunity for observation. I have some – decisions, still to make.”

Its about age, of course, how could he pick the correct age without first seeing which age was the best? It was getting harder each year to convince himself that's all it was.

Before the conflict started, the boy past another birthing day. He was fifteen now, and older than he had ever gotten to be.

---

The first battle had happened just before their arrival, he made sure to bring the boy to see the aftermath.

Days later and the emotions still lingered, running high; it was a buzz in his veins, alive in his element. The boy lingered back, a hand over his nose and mouth.

“Well, come on now, my boy. Going to have to learn to get your hands dirty.”

Initial squeamishness was very common, he was told; exposure would cause it to pass.

The boy's step was hesitant at first, watching the way leather wrapped feet sank into the red sand.

“The smell bothering you?”

A nod, “Its – kinda strong.” He lowered his hand again, trying shallow breaths through his mouth.

“The desert sun will do that.”

Another moment and the boy was willing to explore. He watched the boy touch the sand, scoop it up and let it run through his fingers; watched him examine a broken staff just like the one he trained with, the splintered, pulverized end stained red. He approached the body last.

He squatted down a safe distance away, rocking forward for a closer look. Bare chested, the corpse's stomach was split open, the cause of death; both the man's eyes had been put out, as was tradition.

Blank faced, the boy's eyes lingered longest on the wide open cavity, what organs may have spilled out already carried off by scavengers, who's come back to start emptying the inside as well. The boy's hand reached out a few times, as though to touch, but stopped short each time.

“Fascinating, isn't it?” Drogan hunkered down next to him, “Such a complex system you have here. You can learn it in books, but it is so much more to see it for yourself.”

The boy nodded, eyes unblinking, “What happened?' he asked, “I mean, why did it?”

A shrug, “The usual reasons, I'm sure. Territory, possession, pride, lust. It never looks like much from the outside, but means everything to those within its sphere.”

“There'll be more of it?” his voice was neutral.

“Oh certainly. You'll see it, as well. You'll go with me tomorrow, observe from a distance. You'll finally get to see what I can do.”

---

His attention was on the boy more than the spectacle itself; this was nothing new, but the boy's reactions, now that would be interesting.

The boy watched the fight begin with a subdued excitement, finally something he'd only read about playing out before his eyes. Drogan allowed the fight to continue normal for a time, for the boy's education, before giving the crowd and the competitors what they wanted.

The change was sudden and clear; a widening of the eyes, a sharp intake of breath, the boy sat up straighter. His expression shifted between fascination and horror, but he didn't look away, not once.

Drogan leaned closer, mouth to the boy's ear, “So, what do you think?”

His head turned a fraction in response, but his eyes stayed fixed in place, “You – you did that?”

“I know you know what unfettered means, what did you think it looked like?”

Pupils dilated, breathing shallow, heart rate increasing; Drogan watched him, close enough to smell the blood racing through his veins, see the pule pounding in his scarred neck. In the background, the rapid beat of staff on meat, mindless cries leading to wet tearing, roars of pain and fury, someone being ripped apart.

“I could...do that?” voice an awed whisper.

“And you shall. But you will be better.” In the center stage, a bloody hand rose into the air, “Stronger. Faster. Unshackled from mortal frailty.” The fallen man's heart clenched in the victor's fist, squeezing, squeezing, black blood running down his arm. “Nothing holding you back,” squeezing, squeezing over an open mouth, tongue extended to catch the falling drops, “Nothing can stand in your way.”

Finally, the boy turned and met his eye, a silent intense moment while the cry of victory sounded all around them.

---

“So, what happens now?”

“Well, that will all depend, if the losing tribe wishes to submit to the victor, or if they will put forth a new champion.”

“What do you think?”

“They rarely ever stop at one.”

He waited for the boy to ask the common question, the one people outside a warrior culture could never understand. Waited, but it didn't come.

“Much better than the fate of a sick bed, yes?”

After a minute, the boy nodded.

---

“All right, who do you think is going to win now?”

They made a game of it, at a suggestion Drogan used stone chips as a reward, so the boy could see and measure his progress. He learned not to automatically pick the bigger fighter quick enough; now he watched carefully, weighed his options until the cut off point when Drogan intervened. It was a slow process, too slow and would have proved a hindrance if the boy were out there himself, but he improved at a steady pace. He could develop a good eye for it, in time.

“Her. On the right, with the two short staffs.”

“Why?”

“I think she's better. More confident. And the other woman, she has a bad leg, she's favoring it a little. And she knows it, you see? There, she looked right at it. She's going to go right for it.”

“Good spot, I think you're right. Shall we see?”

“Yeah,” and he held his hand out under Drogan's gaze, anticipating his reward.

He felt another laugh coming, swallowed it down. “Oh put that away, you cocky brat.” pressing down on his palm with the curve of a red claw. The boy never wilted until the barbs, there was no malice behind it, and when the hand popped right back up again he allowed it; they both knew he was getting that reward.

---

Months later it was done, conclusion reached, and Drogan sat again on his sandstone throne, in a temple drenched in sacrificial blood. The animals who provided said blood were consumed in the great celebratory/memorial feast that followed. Drogan had sat through many of these before, always enjoyed the highly festive atmosphere.

The boy stayed with him, in the less grand chair that was made and added for him. He watched impassively, eyes taking in the whole scene all around them.

“You don't have to stay here with me, you know? You can go down there if you'd like.” He had for food, but then came right back. He did know people here now, his training partners, learned to be friendly enough but remained stand offish.

Sure enough, he shook his head, “No, I'm fine.”

It was of little concern, “If you'd like.” He wasn't an obtrusive presence, actually he'd made this routine trip a little more interesting, he was glad to have brought him.

“So, what happens now? We go back?”

“Well, there is no rush. But eventually, yes.” he looked at the boy, “Do you want to go back?”

The boy shrugged, “Its been – interesting,” he chuckled to hear his own turn of phrase, “I do like getting to fight.”

“Yes, I know you do,” he smiled, “We will be back again, I promise you.” Not as safe from prying eyes as the manor but safe enough, he didn't want the boy to become so distant from humanity he no longer knew how to function within it. It would buy him time to figure out how they might expand that safe travel zone.

“I'd rather train with you,” his tone sounded hopeful.

“Not in this lifetime. I've told you, you're too fragile.” A pause, “You won't thank me when it comes.”

“We'll see,” The boy smirked, quickly growing into a grin.

“Yes, we shall. I'll remember this and make it miserable for you.”

The grin only got wider, a laugh smothered behind a raised hand.

“I do not know what has given you the impression you do not have to take me seriously.”

“Because you like me,” plainly stated, with the confidence of complete certainty.

“Is that so?” he was quiet suddenly, somber, “That's what you think?” The boy's eyes remained steady on him, it was Drogan himself who looked away.

---

Time passed so quickly, and the boy became a man. A well made man, healthy, no hidden defects waiting for maturity to spring. He was a little over average height, solidly built, lean in a way that had the potential for speed. That was very good, strength was an easier thing to enhance, speed was more limited and he would need both for maximum effect.

Drogan sat behind his desk, penning the end of a short document, a revision of an older one that had been discarded. It was less a monumental decision than it should have been, which only told him he had in fact made up his mind some time ago.

The boy was running staff drills outside, in the clothes he'd received from their last trip to Dahakr'l. His hair had been shorn, and that extra shit freshly removed from his face. That had been something of a surprise, and how fast it grew back in, it was almost daily maintenance. No good, and it was on his list of adjustments to make; unlike what was on the top of his head its absence would not stand out, it was all going to go.

“Looking good there,” he had this small encouragement thing down now.

The boy scoffed, answering in a voice that had deepened quite a bit, “Of course. I could do this in my sleep.”

“Repetition builds muscle memory. That will count for something one day.” The boy was still a little bitter that Drogan hadn't allowed him the khopesh or battle ax or anything else on offer; any limbs lost or bodily trauma would impede his observation of the boy's natural growth, and while that was understood the sentiment remained. No matter, in truth he was glad to see it.

“Here. I have something for you,” Drogan handed over the new document.

The boy accepted, puzzled, “I'm still in the middle of The Cradle.”

“This will not take as long. And truthfully, it is something I should have given you some time ago.” A pause, “It is my plan for you.”

A raised brow, “So, you've finally picked the age then?”

“Indeed. You're looking at it,” which was true, if not the whole reason; the boy had bought the excuse though.

That won him a grin, the boy unfolded the papers, “So, I've finally bloomed into something useful, have I?”

Drogan laughed, “Yes, bloomed, like a wild flower. Its all wilting from here on, look forward to it.”

“While I can, right?” The boy's eyes made a quick scan, paying particular attention to the sigils drawn, both individually and placed within a human outline. “Regrowth, huh?” he sounded a bit surprised, “Now your objections make some sense.”

“What do you think?” for whatever the reason, Drogan did want an answer, wanted it to be an approval.

The boy glanced it over once more, before folding it up again, “Looks intense. But you would know what you're doing,” he tucked it inside his shirt for a later read. “How long will it take?”

“A while. I can't do it all at once. I have to lay down the core, which will, among other things, stop your time, make you immune, make you my own. Depending on how quickly you adjust, I can build out from there. It will be a time longer before your body learns to function at its new full strength.”

The boy frowned, crossing his arms on his chest, “You make it sound like lifetimes.”

“And so it shall be. And yet more before you have skill enough that I can safely announce your existence.” He chuckled at the expression on the boy's face, “Patience, it is something every immortal has. The earth court is going nowhere, I will have my day. You will learn as well, in time.”

“If you say so,” the boy's hand rose to his neck, an unconscious scratching he still did, less so as time went on. Inexplicably, Drogan wondered about it, what he remembered, if anything. Probably nothing, and he wouldn't ask; it was past and irrelevant, best left behind.

“And when are you going to tell me what this is all about? You must be doing this for some reason.”

“Indeed,” he said, before admitting, “I never had a specific plan for that. Telling you, that is.” And with luck, the boy wouldn't ask why.

“In the middle of writing your book?”

“Or I could simply tell you, if you would prefer. If you do not mind the long and unrefined version.” That he would have to repeat in the future until the memory retained. A useless waste of effort really, but he didn't mind it so much now.

He wasn't sure when that happened.

---

Time passed, the cycle ended and began anew. The man was a boy again: small, chubby and wide eyed. He didn't know Drogan, not anymore, but regarded him with the same curiosity he once had, more so as it was just the two of them from the start this time. He initiated a familiar action, the boy responded the same; they would rebuild, same as before, and that was strangely relieving.

The boy sported his first burn, on his back as tradition dictates: a main sigil fashioned in the likeness of his own glyph, should put end to many of those pesky mortal problems. Drogan watched it, near glowing, fresh and still raw, in the afternoon sun as the boy pulled himself up on a sturdy tree branch; lowering down, up again, young untried muscles starting to strain.

At some point, Drake had joined him.

“That's not what was in your blueprint,” ever observant and forthright, his beloved twin, “I thought you were going to hollow him out.”

So much time spent in painstaking research, finding just the right sigils, the right pathways to sever, to create a living doll, an empty vessel awaiting instruction; all to waste, now.

“I changed my mind.”

“Why?”

“He amuses me,” was the answer he chose, turning to meet Drake's cynical blue eyes, “He's going to be with me for a long time, he might as well be amusing, and able to conduct a conversation.”

“If you say so,” blue eyes focused on the boy again, “Hope it doesn't bite you in the ass.”

Drogan bristled in defense, “You knew the technique, same as I. I didn't see you employing it.”

“Yes, but I didn't keep the pipsqueak's mind intact for his company.”

And Drogan knew that, the why of it even as the motivating factor was beyond him. “But you did it for personal reasons.”

A sigh, “Its not a censure, brother, I'm merely surprised.”

So were they both.

They watched the boy's strength meet its limit, dropping back to the ground with only a small amount of grace. He turned, mismatched eyes seeking Drogan out as they always, always did. He had not been counting this time, but gave a signal of encouragement nonetheless.

The boy beamed; Drake looked on in wicked humor, “What training. If I give him a biscuit, will he crawl in my lap?”

“What are you on about?”

An elegant hand waved in the air, “Nothing, brother dear.”

There was enough occupying his mind as it was; the finalization of this decision opened the way to many others, not the least of which, “He needs a name.”

“Who?”

“The boy. I can hardly keep calling him that.”

“I don't see why not.”

It was more responsibility than he might've thought, his mind turned it over and over again. “Something good. Something right. Something that belongs shouted on a battlefield.”

“Not pipsqueak. That one's taken.”

Drogan smirked, “Yes, I do believe I'll be going in a different direction.”