Chapter 31: The Pen is Mightier?
Asher barely noticed when they reached Samantha's cabin. The haze of exhaustion blurred the sight of her rough, worn sanctuary tucked into the woods.
He stuck to the wall of the cabin to avoid the strewn-about traps, plopping down on one of the chairs by the fireplace.
The heavy smell of pine and metal mingled with the musty aroma of old leather and worn fabric. Asher wrinkled his nose as he glanced around the room again. It was just as chaotic as he remembered—knives haphazardly strewn across surfaces, traps littering the floor, and bows hung at precarious angles.
"Why am I here again?" Asher groaned, shifting uncomfortably on the creaking chair. He winced as a rusted nail dug into his back. "The church was fine. Clean, even. This place is—"
"A pigsty?" Samantha interrupted, unbothered as she brushed dirt off the adjacent chair before dropping into it. "Yeah, I've heard that before."
"No offense," Asher muttered, though his tone betrayed a lack of sincerity. "But seriously, why?"
Samantha smirked. "Told Otto I'd keep you under my care for a week and a day."
Asher froze, his eyes narrowing. "Huh?"
"Oh, and morning training starts after that," she added casually, leaning back in her chair as if she hadn't just dropped a bombshell.
Asher's heart sank as he pictured the grueling training ahead, his mind already retreating to the relative safety of the church. It involved a lot of pain. Probably yelling, too. And definitely an unreasonable amount of endurance drills.
"You're kidding," he said weakly.
Samantha grinned, the look of a predator enjoying its prey's discomfort. "Oh, I never kid about training. It's character-building."
She leaned forward, her voice taking on a sinister sweetness. "You'll thank me one day."
Asher groaned, the thin wood squeaking in protest. "Yeah, sure. When my legs are broken, and I'm crawling back to the church, I'll be singing your praises."
Samantha snorted, crossing her arms. "If your legs break, it's because you've got twigs for bones. That's what the training's for, twig boy."
Asher muttered something under his breath, glaring up at the ceiling pelted by arrows and loose clothing strung on the beams. "I miss the church…" His eyes searched for any semblance of peace in the chaos around him.
"You'll live," Samantha replied, her tone brisk. "Now drink your tea before it gets cold. You'll need all the strength you can muster."
Reluctantly, Asher sat up and grabbed the mug from the rickety table beside him, steam rising from it.
The sharp tang of soil hit his nose again as he sipped. He could also taste something earthy, familiar—ginseng.
It was a bit bitter but nice, its warmth offering a fleeting sense of calm.
His thoughts, however, spiraled into dread.
If this was Samantha's version of care, he didn't want to know what her training regimen looked like.
(Three Asterisks)
Thursday, April 4th, 1341
She wants me to be writing this stupid journal to mark my progress with training and also to better my Feysac writing skills. As if I'm not already busy enough with the actual training. But whatever, I guess.
First day was rough. Really rough. Samantha didn't ease me into it at all. I spent hours doing basic endurance drills—running through the woods, jumping over logs, crawling through mud.
Not a single break, just constant movement. And then she had me practice fighting with a wooden practice sword.
The thing weighs a ton. By the end of the day, my arms were shaking like I'd been holding a boulder all day.
She said this was just the beginning.
"The first day's always the worst"
She said it with a grin. I don't believe her.
(Three Asterisks)
Friday, April 5th, 1341
Well, Samantha's definitely not going easy on me.
More endurance drills today. But she also had me do some weird stretches to loosen my t̶h̶o̶r̶a̶c̶i̶c̶, t̶r̶o̶p̶s̶i̶z̶i̶c̶, trapezius muscles after training. I don't know why she insists on making everything sound so complicated.
I could barely keep up with the stretches, let alone the drills. My body is already sore, and we're only two days in.
At least I haven't cried yet. That's progress, right? She keeps pushing me, saying that "feeling like you're about to die means you're doing it right."
Atleast, I'm still alive, so I guess that's something.
(Three Asterisks)
Saturday, April 6th, 1341
I'm done. I can't take any more. I'm supposed to be toughening up, but this feels like something else.
Today she made me hunt. I spent hours running around, trying to trap something. I eventually caught a rabbit—not a proud catch, mind you, considering it basically tripped and fell into my hands.
But the moment I held its head in my hands, something inside me broke.
I just couldn't do it. I couldn't kill it. I looked at it in my hands, and all I could think about was how stupid it was that I was so afraid of doing something that had to be done.
It wasn't even a matter of mercy, it was just… too much. I ended up leaving it there, running off before I could finish the job.
Samantha found me a little while later and immediately started yelling. "If you're not willing to finish what you started, then don't start it at all!"
She shoved me back toward the woods. "You're not here to cry over a damn rabbit. Get your head in the game!"
Yeah, well, my head's in pieces damn it.
(Three Asterisks)
Sunday, April 7th, 1341
I'm still caught up on that rabbit the look in it's eyes its-
Anyways, today I felt like I was drowning.
More endurance drills. More practice with the sword. I swear, I can barely look at them the same after this.
Every damn part of my body hurts, but Samantha says that's the point. She doesn't care about how tired I am, just that I'm getting better.
She didn't say anything about the rabbit from yesterday, which I'm thankful for. But there's this nagging feeling in my chest every time I think about it.
I'm supposed to be learning to handle death, learning to make decisions that are difficult, but I'm not sure I'm cut out for it. What if I'm never able to make those choices when it counts? What if I freeze up when someone's life is on the line?
(Three Asterisks)
Monday, April 8th, 1341
More of the same today. I can't keep up with all of this. I feel like I'm constantly behind, like no matter how hard I push, it's never enough.
And yet, there's a part of me that just doesn't want to stop. I hate this, but I'm not sure I can give up either.
Was that one guy named Sisyphus?
Samantha keeps telling me that I need to be stronger. She doesn't care if I'm tired or hurt, she just wants me to get better. Maybe she's right.
Maybe I do need to push past this. I don't know. What I do know is that this feels like it's breaking me down… and maybe that's exactly what's supposed to happen.
I can't wait to get out of this place and not have to deal with Samantha's snoring from across the room.
The more I think about it, the more I realize I'm not sure who I am anymore. All this talk about strength—it's like it's becoming everything.
If I'm not strong enough, if I'm not tough enough, what does that leave me?
Maybe I'm just a joke. I don't know if I'll ever be good enough for this beyonder stuff.
I'm exhausted. I'm confused. And I think I'm starting to break…
(Three Asterisks)
The pen hovered above an empty page, as if caught between the words that weren't there and the frustration that flooded Asher's chest.
The ink smudged as his trembling hand gripped it tighter, pushing down with an urgency that felt wrong. His heart raced, but it wasn't from exertion.
Tears welled up in his eyes, but they weren't enough to stop the ink from spilling out, blending with the smudged blotches on the paper.
The pen seemed to fight back. It dug into the paper, the scratch of metal against the rough surface almost mocking him, before it skipped in a jagged line.
Asher slammed it down again, the force making the nib scrape painfully, sending ink droplets splattering over the page. Each stroke became a battle, his frustration and helplessness leaving trails of dark splotches, the paper torn where he pressed too hard.
Tears mixed with the ink, hidden beneath the frantic scribbles, as if the paper itself was the only one who could understand the turmoil within him.
The pen refused to cooperate, but Asher didn't care anymore.
The ink bled like the thoughts in my mind—unfinished, uncontrollable, and impossible to make sense of.