Gathering Clouds, Chapter 24

• Posted by The Sunflower Manual February 1, 2017 - Filed in TSC: Long Story - #Harrow  #R.T.H.L.  - 1,726 views

  Chapter 24

   

   

   

   

                  Harrow laid in bed, completely still save for the slight rise and fall of his chest as he struggled to breathe.

   

                  The healer next to him took his pulse, noting the irregularities. Then he peeled back an eyelid and lit one finger aglow with magic, frowning as the silver pupil did not react.

   

                  ‘How is he?’ Jorra asked anxiously. Diia and Ambarro sat beside him, looking up wearily as the healer closed the door behind him.

   

                  ‘Stable. Well, below his neck, anyway. Neurologically, it’s another matter entirely.’ The healer held up his hands in a placating gesture as Jorra opened his mouth in panic. ‘It appears to simply be a deep coma arising from the differences in Magicka distribution in his nerves. Most of my colleagues agree that there should be no long-term side effects or permanent mental damage. Rest assured, we will bring him out of his vegetative state soon enough. It will take him some time to recover, though.’

   

                  ‘How long?’ Bengakhi rumbled, appearing from behind them and making the two kits jump. The orange and black-striped Po’ Tun was as gruff and to the point as ever.

   

                  ‘Ah, Bengakhi-ra…’ the healer floundered. Bengakhi had that effect on people. ‘Around six weeks for his full capabilities to return.’

   

                  ‘Six weeks? He already took two off to recover from his mishap with the Pale Flask. Now you’re telling me he needs another month and a half?’ Bengakhi rubbed his brow. ‘I knew it was a mistake letting a non-Po’ Tun stay in the village. He had better make up for this lapse.’

   

                  Once again Ambarro had to resist his urge to punch the advisor in the face. Just because you’ve got that fancy seat next to Grandpa doesn’t mean you can run around saying whatever you want, bastard.

   

                  ‘That’s not fair, Bengakhi-dro,’ Jorra frowned. ‘Harrow is a very quick study. He will catch up with his training in no time.’

   

                  ‘I certainly hope so.’ The hulking Po’ Tun drew himself up and padded out of the corridor. Now that the kits had taken the Pale Flask, Ambarro could appreciate just how strong he had to be. Most shinobi were satisfied with their thin limbs and small frame, but not Bengakhi. He had continued training with weights to bulk up his already enhanced muscle fibres. His biceps were the size of Diia’s waist. He could probably rip someone in half with his bare hands. Would probably enjoy it too, the prick.

   

                  ‘At least Harrow-to’s going to be all right,’ Diia said, looking relieved. ‘Bengakhi-ra is too hard on him.’

   

                  ‘Bengakhi-dro is only thinking of the village as a whole,’ Jorra said, though even he seemed irritated. ‘He does employ a rather… direct manner of speech, though.’

   

                  ‘Harrow-to is already a fine shinobi. We shouldn’t treat him any differently simply because he doesn’t have… is something wrong, Ambarro-to?’

   

                  Ambarro had turned away, looking subdued.

   

                  ‘Nothing,’ he mumbled. ‘Nothing’s wrong.’

  
  

   

                  ‘Hey, you! Brat!’

   

                  Harrow looked back at him, scowling. It was play session in the nursery and as usual, the elf boy was alone in the corner, drawing squiggles in a clear patch of snow. Ambarro hated him for that, for staying so aloof from everyone else, for his air of arrogance and superiority.

   

                  He stalked over to him, fur bristling. ‘You beat my score on the course again. Stop it. I’m sick of having to try it over and over again.’

                 

                  ‘You could always accept your place at the bottom.’ The reply was in those same biting tones.

   

                  They had both been so unbelievably juvenile.

   

                  It wasn’t the first time they had an argument, and it certainly wasn’t the last. Their mutual dislike had festered as they bickered and tried to constantly outdo the other, and Ambarro flushed as he remembered some of the thoughtless words that dripped from his lips.

   

                  ‘What’s someone with no claws doing trying to be a Shadeclaw?’

   

                  ‘Where’d your fur go? Someone shave it off?’

   

                  ‘Can you even hear anything with those stubbed ears of yours?’

   

                  Of course they had to come to blows eventually. He could still remember the taste of the snowy ground as Harrow knocked him down face-first, in front of everyone else in the class.

   

                  The venom pounded in his veins as he spat out one last insult, trying to hurt him, make him suffer in some way, any way.

   

                  ‘You don’t belong here, freak!’

   

                  Ambarro shook his head, remembering his vicious satisfaction as he saw that he had managed to wound him after all. Stupid kid.

   

                  They had never really forgiven each other. Even now, the memory of that day sent a dark cloud of resentment bubbling up in his chest. Lately, though, that cloud had been tinged with something else. A hint of doubt. Almost regret.

   

                  If I hadn’t been so stuck-up with losing face, or if I’d reached out, tried to talk with him normally… would things have turned out different?

   

                  ‘I didn’t really catch all of that, but what you really meant was that Harrow will never be able to become as strong as me when we both grow up, right?’

   

                  Now he understood why Uncle Jorra had that look of disapproval about him when he said that.

   

                  Ambarro shook his head again, snorting.

   

                  Stupid, stupid kid.

  
  

   

  -FILE UPDATED AS OF 26 FROST FALL, 4E 196-

   

   

  Name: Harrow*

   

  Rank: Advanced trainee, low-priority operative

   

  Missions assigned: 7 (6 low-priority, 1 medium-priority)

   

  Missions completed: 6 (5 low-priority, 1 medium-priority)

   

  Missions failed: 1 (1 low-priority)

   

  Date of birth: 7^th of Sun’s Height, 4E 182

   

  Fur colour: Not applicable**

   

  Eye colour: Silver

   

  Height: Five feet two inches (Thirty pertans)

   

  Weight: Ninety-five pounds (Six thousand four hundred and eighty-nine angaids)

   

  *Operative was born to an Altmer mother and Nord father (see separate file ‘Legion contacts and allies: Arngrimur’).

   

  **Operative has black hair covering the crown of his head as opposed to fur.

   

   

   

  Performance Evaluation

   

   

                  -High praise from instructors throughout the course of training

   

                  -Eidetic memory, exceptional skill retention from both lectures and practical instruction

   

                  -Proficient in combat magic, manipulation of lightning in particular

   

                  -Considerable skill in kenjutsu and hand-to-hand combat

   

                  -Whispering Fang practitioner (handicapped by lack of claws)

   

                  -Displays intricate tactical mind-set when deployed on assignments

   

                  -Relatively high mission success rate since activation in Evening Star 4E 193

   

   

   

  Psychological Evaluation

   

   

                  -Has difficulty expressing emotion, attempts to conceal this by developing a dry wit and an aloof persona

   

                  -Initial guilt over the use of lethal force – overcome after experience in live combat

   

                  -Sense of loneliness and detachment concerning physical differences with peers and lack of a strong

                   parental figure, leading to a low sense of self-worth and identity

   

                  -Compensates by striving to excel in both training and field operations

   

                  -Intense fear of inadequacy and abandonment, causing aggressive behaviour towards select individuals, as

                   well as a disregard for personal safety bordering on self-destructiveness

   

                  -Probable inferiority complex

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

                  The Grandmaster slid the file back into the Year 182 folder, then leant back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. There was really nothing new to learn here, though it did outline Harrow’s problem very clearly. This business with Rendanshu only brought it to a head.

   

                  So what was to be done? Giving the boy further access to Rendanshu potions was obviously out of the question. The Pale Flask nearly destroyed his muscles, the Yellow Flask his mind, and given that the Green Flask induces changes to the lungs, the healers would likely not be able to act fast enough to save his life a third time.

   

                  On the other hand, separating him from his fellows in this way would only serve to compound his insecurity. He couldn’t send a shinobi out into the field second-guessing himself; that would be a death sentence.

   

                  Takarro grunted lightly and stood, loosening his shoulders. Some Grandmaster he was, not being able to deal with a single kit and his problems.

   

                  At the very least I can stop him from hurting himself, he thought resolutely as he crossed out Harrow’s name from the list of Rendanshu candidates. If only his emotions could be resolved just as easily.

  
  

   

                  Night was falling, and the lanterns of Tsukikage began to light up the village along with natural moonbeams. Gold and silver rays shone through the gaps in the covered window into the small room in the hospice, and a sliver of it fell on Ambarro’s face.

   

                  Harrow’s breathing had steadied, and his sheets rose and fell along with his chest. Other than that, though, he still looked barely alive.
  

   

                  ‘Look at you, sleeping like a baby,’ Ambarro said, sitting down on a stool next to him. ‘It’s rare to see those eyebrows of yours not crunched up in thought.’

   

                  He drew in a deep breath and let it out. ‘I’ve got some things to say. Things I’ve been meaning to say for a while now, but you’d just laugh in my face if you heard them, so I didn’t really want to bother. Of course, you can’t really laugh now, can you? Can’t really hear either. Or see – so we don’t have to test out if you were telling the truth or not when you bragged about learning to lip-read.’

   

                  No response. He didn’t really expect anything else. Sighing, he continued.

   

                  ‘I’ve said some damned stupid things. Scratch that, we’ve both said damned stupid things to each other when we were children, but for me this went doubly true because… well, because they were mostly lies. All that rot about you being a stranger, you not belonging in the village, how you were just acting smart to get in the Masters’ good books, how you didn’t have any real ability… that was directed more at me than at you. I needed a good reason to hate you. I needed a good reason to hold that childish grudge of mine. I needed a good reason… any reason… anything but the truth.

   

                  ‘I simply couldn’t stand having someone better than me. I know, I know, most of the other kits in the class are better than me in one way or the other, right? You’d probably follow that up with one of your snarky comments, and end it with “dunce” like you always do. But you were the first person to ever just… beat me so completely at everything I did. My earliest memory is of you walking in front of me on Dejira-ko’s balance beam, did you know that? Of course you didn’t stop there. You were two times ahead of everyone in everything else. Martial arts, magic practice, stealth training, tactics, weapon techniques... even calligraphy. Calligraphy, of all things! Do you remember that time Master Torako told us to “practice our penmanship” with his writing booklet, and you ended up copying the entire thing without a single mistake?’

   

                  He had to smile as he felt the resentment bubble up again.

   

                  ‘Argh. I haven’t gotten over it yet, and I don’t think I ever will. I’ve had to train, and fight, and work hard for all the progress I’ve made up to this day, and it’s easy to just call you a lucky, lazy slacker because you’re a bit smarter than I am. I know, though. I know you’ve had to work for it in your own way, that you’ve spent the same time studying in the library as I have sparring in the practice fields. Still remember that night with those dummies? What are the odds, eh, both of us breaking the wards at the same time?’

   

                  Ambarro looked out of the window, parting the curtains with one hand and letting more of the light from Tsukikage spill into the room.

   

                  ‘Then we were both cleared for field duty, and I saw more to you than I ever did in the village. I saw how you fried a warlord’s battlemage with a single burst of lightning, how you powered through torture and mutilation like it was nothing, how you managed to take out a skooma lord single-handedly and in his own house. All that just made me even more determined to surpass you.

   

                  ‘And yet, when the moment finally draws near… I find myself suddenly wishing that I wouldn’t. Not if it’s going to drive you to these lengths. Not if you’re going to kill yourself trying to catch up. I thought that I’d gotten sick enough of walking behind you, that I hated you enough to be happy as I watched you die. Guess I don’t really know what true hatred is.

   

                  ‘Grandpa and the others think that you’re lonely, that you feel isolated being so different from the rest of us. We both know that you’re not really alone, though, right? You have Uncle Jorra, and Master Torako, and Master Mokko, and Unaka-ko, and Dejira-ko, and Diia, and Shiyo, and Io, and Tom, and everyone else in Year 182… and me,’ he added quietly, almost as an afterthought. ‘And you’re just as much a part of the village as we are. You’re one of us, a shinobi to the core, and it never mattered to me if you had claws or not. So never tell yourself otherwise, okay?’

   

                  Ambarro left his seat and made for the door. ‘Grandpa likes to say that everyone in Tsukikage is family. I guess that makes you family too.’ He blinked, then said quickly, ‘Not that I like it, of course. Heh, am I glad you’re unconscious. You’d have ripped me to pieces by now.’

   

                  He spared one final glance at the comatose youth as he stopped in the middle of the corridor.

   

                  ‘Hurry up and get better soon, all right? Training gets dull without someone to compete against.’

   

                  With that, Ambarro shut the door, leaving the room silent and dark once again.

   

                  Had he stayed just a brief second longer, he might have seen Harrow tilt his head almost imperceptibly to the left, and the small, solitary tear that ran down the side of his temple.