The Final Test

The shadows of early morning crept across the forested hinterlands. The chill wind of early Spring whispered through the branches like the wailing of ghosts. On that wind came the scent of pine needles and the fresh, crisp smell of Winter’s death. Three cloaked figures, one ahead and two behind, walked through the thicket of trees to a clearing.

The lead figure turned to the pair behind, pushing her hood back to reveal a female, elven countenance. Her dark eyes regarded her companions as they brought their own hoods back to show their faces. The taller of the two was blonde, square jawed, and blue eyed. A deep blue cloak clung to his shoulders, emphasizing the broadness of his upper body. The final figure was a head shorter than his counterpart. He was slimmer, with sharper features and silver hair.

“You two are to leave home soon, to travel north to Highwind City,” the elf woman said. “To become knights of our order in truth. But don't think either of you are out of the woods yet. Your master still has one more test for the both of you.”

The blonde haired boy grinned, folding his arms over his chest. "We're ready for anything you have to throw at us," he said. His blue eyes held an inner fire of determination that never went away.

The silver haired boy gave the blonde a sidelong glare. "Your enthusiasm is like the flu, Stratos," he said.
"Infectious?"
"It tends to cause headaches."
The grin on Stratos' face didn't leave or lessen from the other boy's barb. "You're incorrigible, Genos."

"Enough," the elven woman shouted, grabbing the two boys' attention. The two stood ramrod straight, then, shoulders back and chins up.
"Apologies, Master Ravensong," they said in unison.

The Master Knight let out another sigh. Both of these boys were their own brand of trouble. Stratos was brash, loud, and impulsive. Genos was fresh, gifted with more wit than sense, and too competitive for his own good. The two of them combined was a recipe for disaster.

"Your final test," Dacaryn Ravensong said. "Is a one on one duel between the both of you. The first one to land a wounding blow on the other wins. The one of you wins gets to leave for Highwind. The loser stays behind and waits for next year. Got that?"

The pair of squires nodded.

"Alright," the elven knight said. "Both of you, take ten paces away from each other and get ready for my signal."
"Wait," Genos said. "Before we start, are there any restrictions on what we're allowed to use?"
Ravensong put her hands on her hips. "No. Use all that you have to land a wounding blow."
Stratos shot another grin to Genos. "We can pull out all the stops, huh," Stratos said, pulling the giant wooden sword out of its scabbard. "Fine by me. I always wanted to test myself against Genos at full power."
Genos made a tsk-ing sound. "This isn't a game, Stratos. Take this seriously."
"I am taking this seriously," he replied. "Like how I'm seriously going to win."

When they were at their marks, they readied themselves. Eyes of blue fire met with hard grays, filled with stone cold determination. They stood there, facing each other and ready to strike. The gentle breeze played with their hair, fluttering their clothes.

Dacaryn gave the signal and the fight was on. Genos strafed around a charging Stratos. He struggled to keep his distance from the swordsman barreling towards him. A volley of rubber bullets shot towards Stratos. Each one followed by the loud bangs of gunpowder. With precision that betrayed his powerhouse physique, Stratos cut the bullets from the air. He managed to close the distance. With sword raised above his head, he went in for an overhand strike.

To Stratos, Genos seemed to slide out of the way of his stroke. Genos had manipulated the infinite probability of time to dodge at the right moment. His power, his time magic, wasn't infinite; but it was effective when applied at the right moment. Genos jumped back, firing two more bullets as a counter stroke. They met with the flat of Stratos' wooden sword.

The gun-toting chronomancer continued to move through Stratos' relentless onslaught. Again and again he weaved the flows of time, keeping out of the sword's reach. Anger rose within the swordsman. The fire in his eyes burned brighter and hotter, fueled by his determination and his rage.

Gunshots rang and bullets flew towards a brawny chest. Stratos twisted out of the way, sword perpendicular to his body. Stratos spun on his heel, twisting his whole body with the motion, putting the whole of his weight into the swing. Genos barely had time to react, not enough to use his magic. He ducked the swing, the wind of the blow ruffling his hair.

Before Genos could even raise his guns, a booted foot came at him. He crossed his arms and took the blow, sliding backwards. His forearms ached as if he had done a thousand push-ups nonstop, every muscle fiber burning like fire. The insane, inhuman strength behind the kick was sure enough to have snapped them in half. Genos’ only saving grace was his time magic, which he used to heal his arms the instant they broke. He growled under his breath. He refused to relent.

"That looked like a solid hit," remarked Dacaryn. "Let me take a look at that, Genos."
"I'm fine," shouted the silver haired gunslinger as he scrambled to his feet. "Not even a scratch! C'mon Stratos, I thought you were going all out!"
Stratos gave his rival a smirk. "Hell yeah," he called. "Let's go, Genos!" And he went in for another attack.

Stratos ran and went for a thrust. The tip of his blade met only dirt as Genos sprang backwards and emptied the cylinders of his pistols. Stratos got on one knee and lifted his wooden sword, using it as a shield. The wood of the fake blade began to splinter, rubber bullets lodged in it. He cursed and got back up on his feet.

Genos had reloaded his twin pistols with the speed only a chronomancer could manage. The silver haired squire gritted his teeth. He was almost out of magical reserves, his one edge against his rival was running out. He resolved to end this fight as fast as he could, while he could. Genos dashed forward, guns ready, and fired. One bang followed another as fake bullets flew. Stratos changed his stance. He brought his sword close and used the flat of his blade to guard against the projectiles again.

This was his time, his moment. Using the last of his time magic, he made time flow slowly; slower than he ever had. The wind the leaves rode on became sluggish, in no rush to hit the ground. In that moment, Genos struck. Five pulls of the trigger at point blank range at Stratos’ chest in time stretched out. An electric jolt shot through the gunslinger’s fingers and up his hands, spreading out to the rest of his body. The thrill of certain victory made him feel energized. His heart felt like it was going to burst from that one, razor sharp feeling. He exulted in it as his bullets crawled toward their target.

The thrill of victory gave way to fear as Genos saw Stratos become surrounded by fire. What was this? Stratos was no fire mage. He wasn’t a primal knight, nor a summoner. This wasn’t possible, plain and simple. The fiery aura around the would be knight grew higher and hotter. Beads of sweat formed and trickled down Genos’ brow. Then he moved. Not sluggishly as the wind and the leaves did, but  as Genos himself did. A fist planted itself into the time mage’s gut. He doubled over, folding around Stratos' fist. All the breath in his lungs left him and his eyes filled with stars.

He didn’t remember ending up on the ground or when time had resumed its normal flow. All he did remember was being sprawled on his back while the world spun. He blinked a few times before his eyes could focus and he saw a familiar face. Above him was a white haired girl in robes of red and white, the office of the clergy. She was kneeling beside him, her hands glowing gold while she touched his temples. Cecille Faulkner Windsong, Stratos’ stepsister.


He could hear Master Ravensong’s voice and she didn’t sound happy, and neither did Stratos for that matter. They were off to the side though he could still see them out of the corner of his eye. Master Dacaryn was speaking to the blonde boy with her arms crossed. Stratos’ head hanging in what had to be shame. Or was it worry? Genos couldn’t quite make out their words. He tried to get up but Ceci pulled him down.
“Don’t get up, stupid,” the young healer chided. “You’re not fully healed yet.”
“What’s going on,” Genos asked, his voice coming out somewhat slurred. “What happened?”
“You lost and took a hard fall. You’ll live.”

Genos sighed, closing his eyes. He had that victory in his hands, it was so close he could touch it. Then Stratos came and took it out of his grasp. What was that fire that surrounded him? That sudden burst of power that let him move in slowed time? He didn’t know, but one thing was certain. Between this and his supernatural strength, his rival wasn’t entirely human. And that thought galled him more than the loss itself.

“I know I told you two not to hold back,” Dacaryn Ravensong said, her voice like sharpened steel. “But what you did could’ve killed Genos.”
“I’m sorry, Master Ravensong,” said Stratos in a meek tone, his head bowed.
“I’ve seen you punch trees down! You of all people should know when to control your strength.”
“I’m sorry, Master Ravensong.”
“Don’t apologize to me, squire. Apologize to Genos.”

Stratos turned to his friend and squatted down next to him. There were still two trails of blood at the corner of Genos’ mouth that led to his chin and down his neck. His breathing was normal now that Ceci had gotten a hold of him. That was good. His brow furrowed and he said “Are you alright, Genos?”
“I’m fine,” his friend replied in a terse voice.
Stratos looked up at his stepsister. “Can he walk on his own?”
“Probably,” Ceci said. “I took care of the serious stuff, so he should be fine.” She looked down at Genos. “You’re welcome by the way.”
Genos grunted in response, causing Ceci to roll her eyes. She got up, brushed off her robes, and walked to the Master Knight’s side. The two of them wore the same stern expression, both of them looking at the two squires.

Stratos offered his friend a hand. Genos swatted the hand away and got up on his own, stumbling only a little.

Stratos rose as well, his usually smiling face now frowning. “Genos, I--”
“I don’t need your pity, Stratos,” spat the silver haired boy. The venom in his voice made Stratos take a step back. “I don’t know what you did or how you did it, but I’ll find a way to beat you. I don’t care if it takes me a hundred years to do it, I will beat you.”

Then he stormed off, his surcoat darkened by sweat and forest detritus alike. Leaves of green and brown speckled his shaggy hair. His guns abandoned on the ground where he had dropped them as he fell. Stratos opened his mouth, about to call to his friend, when his elven teacher held out a hand to silence him. “Let him go,” she said. “He just needs time to cool off.  And you need to pack.”

He looked at his master, not quite comprehending what she was saying at first. Then the realization dawned on him. “I-I won,” he said, the confusion fading from his voice. “Oh right, I won! I have to go pack, I have to tell father, I have to get the horses saddled.” He began to ramble about preparation when his sister put a hand on his shoulder to get his attention.
“I’m coming with you,” she said.
“Huh,” said Stratos. “Who decided that?”
“I did,” the elf archer said. “Someone needs to be there to rein you in, as this little mock fight demonstrated.” She gave him a look that told him this decision was not up for discussion.

Stratos knew that arguing would be pointless. Either with his sister or with his master now that they made up their minds. He shrugged, making his way back home to pack and ready for the journey ahead.

Afternoon turned to evening, Stratos went looking for Genos. It took him a few minutes, but he found his friend in the woods. Genos was shooting targets while moving at a chronomancer's speed. As he approached, Genos spied him and stopped with a skid as he was hopping to the side. The gunslinger holstered his guns with a flourish, looking at Stratos with his hands on his hips.
“What do you want,” asked Genos. It was plain by the tone of his voice that he was the last person Genos wanted to see right now. “Come to gloat about your victory?”
“What? No,” Stratos said. “I wanted to see if you were doing alright.”
“I’m not,” the silver haired squire replied curtly. “Once again, I lost to you. Second place, as always.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re not great, Genos. Think about it. You’ve been able to keep up with me, step for step. Who else can say that?”
Genos didn’t reply. His gray eyes stared daggers at Stratos, lips pressed to a line and brow furrowed.
“Althena knows I’m a freak of nature with my strength and endurance,” Stratos went on. “But with only your time magic and determination, you’ve been my equal for as far back as I can remember. The other squires struggle to match us! That has to count for something, right?”
Still Genos made no reply, though he looked contemplative now. Genos had to admit that his rival did have a point. With a heavy sigh and a nod, Genos said “When you put it like that, I can kind of see it. Kind of.”

Stratos smiled, stepping towards his friend. He extended his hand towards Genos and nodded. “When I make it to Highwind and win the tournament, I’ll fight for the both of us,” he said. “I’ll carry the banner of Silver and Gold to the whole empire.”
Despite himself, Genos smiled and shook his head. “You’re incorrigible, Stratos,” he said as he took Stratos’ hand and shook.

It was dawn the next day when Stratos and Cecille began their journey north to Highwind City. While still cinching saddles on and fixing their bags, their father, Tera, came to meet them. Dressed in plain, sturdy clothing that made him look more a farmer or shepherd than a knight. The image wasn't helped by his unkempt, blue hair and close cropped beard.
“Come to see us off, father,” asked Stratos as he secured a bag onto his mount’s harness.

A sound of metal piercing the dirt caused the blonde youth to turn around. In his stepfather’s calloused hands was a sword as tall as he was and then some.  The long blade shone like polished silver with a fuller running down the flat. The centerpiece of the crossguard bore the likeness of a roaring lion’s head. The quillons flared out, decorated with an unreadable runic script. It had a long grip, more than enough room for three hands if not four; capped by a heavy gilded pommel. Before him was his father’s own sword, Lionheart.

“I was thinking about what to send you off with,” said Tera. One hand still on the huge sword’s grip while the other ran through his beard. “Figured this would be a good idea.”
Stratos’ eyes goggled and his jaw dropped. He was speechless for a long moment before saying, “Father, this is – I mean, I’m not --”
“You are if I say you are, my boy,” the older knight said, his tone kind. “I once held this blade while in the company of heroes. Now, I trust it with you and hope that it serves you well.” The older man offered the grip to his stepson. “Take it, and use it well.”

Stratos reached a tentative hand toward the sword’s grip. It was new, the old cracked leather he remembered it having was gone. He closed one hand around the hilt and then the other. When his father let go he pulled the blade from the earth and could only marvel at it. Lionheart felt good in his hands, the weight didn’t bother him thanks to his strength. The golden glow of dawn’s light played off the steel, making it seem to glow in return. Stratos turned his attention from the sword to his father, who had a smile on his face.
“Treat her well, boy,” Tera said. He put a hand on his son’s shoulder and squeezed. “And make me proud.” He had a warm smile on his face, giving a particularly fatherly cast to his scarred features.

Stratos dropped the sword and embraced his father. He could feel a swelling in his chest and tears of joy in his eyes. “I promise I will, father,” said Stratos. He rested his cheek on his father’s head and held him for a moment longer before finally letting go. “I promise I’ll make you proud. I’ll treat Lionheart well too.”
“I know you will,” the older knight said. He put a hand to the younger man’s cheek, which was wet with tears. “Now go. Carry that blade with you and win.”

Two horses left Trausburg for the northern city of Highwind. On one was a girl in robes of red and white, hood pulled up and a frown on her face as he brother whistled a merry tune. He was clad in armor with a cape attached to his shoulders, his head open to the air. On his back was a greatsword of Herculean proportions. Both the blade of the sword and the boy’s blonde hair shone with the golden light of the sun. They made their way to the Imperial Road, to end one journey and begin another.