NEW BLOOD

He opens his eyes in bed, head pounding painfully in time with his heart. The last thing he recalls from the previous night is entering a drinking establishment, and he puts two and two together with mild annoyance. Why did I do that? He wonders. She will be upset. Our first day together in weeks just got off to a horrible start.

Getting up, he prepares breakfast for two before remembering that she is

Gone forever, tracking down a lost chalice in the Doldrums, and you couldn't do anything about it–

He closes his eyes and stands very still, as if a single movement would cause him to shatter (it might). After an eternity, he sighs and returns half the food to the pantry.

The sun's rays flicker and dance in the street outside. It is only morning.

~a~

As he heads to the training halls, he realizes that all eyes will be on him. The sudden exit of their commander has left the Guard unsettled, and what he had with her hadn't exactly been discreet–

He takes a deep breath as his thoughts cut off abruptly. Abyss, he whispers. I hope it'll get less painful. For a brief, traitorous moment, he wonders if memories of– if these memories, he corrects himself – will ever lose their edge. He wonders if it'd be better to just forget–

No. He clamps down on the thought with all his will. I would sooner die than forget. He thinks for a moment. In a way, then, the pain isn't that bad.

~a~

The assembled Guard turn as one to face him as he enters. One of the surviving captains approaches apprehensively, reports to him and asks for permission to continue. He grants it with a wave of his hand, and they resume their drills. Vaguely, he remembers her– remembers her planning to inspect them today.

He has something else in mind. "Captain," he says, and the captain snaps to attention. "Who are the best fighters in this room?"

~a~

Outside the hall, he sizes up the twenty best fighters in the Guard. Most of them are veterans, with countless scars to show for their long histories with violence, and they remain a formidable sight even with practice weapons in their hands.

He raises his fists. "Which one of you wants to go first?" He asks, and they exchange glances. Very few of them have seen him in combat – most of his assignments are solitary patrols of the Abyss, too deep for their kind to go – but they have heard stories. The youngest-looking member comes forth, determination clear in her eyes.

He beats her in an instant, slipping under her guard and slamming her into the stone floor.

"Who's next?" He asks. They exchange glances again. Every one of them is fast, strong, skilled and battle-hardened to an impressive degree, but their primary Purpose is civilization – their dexterous hands and nimble fingers are clear evidence. He was born to fight and kill.

He throws himself into combat again and again with reckless abandon, and for a while there is nothing but the rush of adrenaline as the world simplifies itself into defense, counterattack, attack. Then it is over – already? He thinks – and as the fatigue begins to set in he can feel the pain in his heart resurface.

Disappointed (unfairly, he knows), he mutters a dismissal and the fighters limp back into the hall. Four more hours before I can return sleep, he thinks. Far too long before I can forget again.

A movement in the corner of his eye catches his attention, and he turns to see a lone Guardswoman – the one he defeated at the beginning. While the other nineteen fighters fell somewhere between bemusement and resignation, she is curious.

"Where'd you learn to fight like that?" She asks, then realizes her failure to address him by his rank. "Um. Sir."

The egg, he thinks. I learned to fight in the egg, and for years afterward I fought for my life until I managed to escape that black hell. He doesn't say that, though. Instead, he says: "I… had a rough childhood."

She stifles an incredulous laugh before growing serious. "Can you teach me?" The words come out in a rush.

He grins. Perhaps this won't be all bad, after all.