(Updating every two weeks through May)

The Tale of Beowulf: Fatally Flawed

In his time at Gariland, Beowulf's training had been frantic. In his time among the Templars, it was frenzied. The only time he allowed himself to rest was when he slept, and even then he never let himself sleep for long.

And yet, all his fervor did not buy him much, because for the first time in his life, Beowulf was outmatched.

The Templars were not like the patient Instructors of the Gariland Military Academy. There were no classes, no orderly lessons you could buck against. There were the proper Templars, whatever their rank, and there were the trainees, and the Templars were free to drill the trainees in their care however they saw fit. Every Templar, even the youngest and most inexperienced, was equal to a Hokuten veteran. Some were nearly as strong as Wiegraf and Miluda. Many, but not all, were Swordbreakers: some were Mage Knights, and some simple mages. All had their unique qualities (the swordsman who could set any weapon she held aflame: the mage who could shatter metal across the room from him, if you did not raise your magic in time to stop him). All were better than Beowulf was, and punishingly strict.

And the other trainees? Not every one matched Beowulf's talent for swordsmanship (though his matches with them were closer than any of his contests had ever been against his fellow cadets save for Delita and Ramza, only the Valkyries had felt more dangerous and then only just), but every one had talent, skills as diverse (though much less polished) than their instructors. Most, however, were training in the way of the Swordbreaker.

And even the weakest Swordbreaker could best Beowulf without trouble. Put one of the shared Swordbreaker blades in their hands, and they could break his blunted training swords without trouble. Put those same swords in Beowulf's hands, and he could not break theirs. At best, giving Beowulf a Swordbreaker blade let him outfight his opponent in a straight match...and even then, some of the other trainees were skilled enough to best him.

He drilled, and trained, and barely slept, and fought with all his courage. And he could not win a single sparring match where an opponent was allowed to use their magic.

So it was a strange, weary dread that he followed the acolyte who had found him on the sparring grounds, to lead him to the Bishop's spacious office just off Igros Cathedral's belltower.

"How are your injuries?" the Bishop asked, as he set aside the papers in front of him, and Beowulf eased into a plush seat on the opposite side of the mahogany table.

Beowulf shrugged. The dull pain in his chest was nothing compared to the wound Wiegraf had cut into him, and nothing compared to the ache in his heart when he thought of Wiegraf, and Ramza, and Delita, and Teta.

"You certainly do not lack for courage," Bremondt chuckled. "It may surprise you to learn that every Templar who has had the privilege of training you speaks highly of you." His warm eyes were gentle as ever...and strangely sad.

"Thank you," Beowulf said, though the back of his neck crawled.

The Bishop nodded. The sadness in his eyes seemed heavier still. "That is why I...I regret to inform you..."

Cold stole down Beowulf's spine. "Your Grace?"

The Bishop closed his eyes a moment, and nodded. When he opened them again, the sadness had become something firmer. "You cannot join the Templars."

The words were quiet, so Beowulf could not understand the ringing in his ear, as though an explosion had gone off nearby. "I'm sorry?"

The Bishop's kindly face was solemn, filled with regret. "So am I." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose. "You are talented with a blade, and you work harder than any one I have ever known..."

"But?" Beowulf hated the weakness in his voice.

"But you..." The Bishop hesitated a moment. "You have never broken a single sword, correct?"

"I...no, but-

"Have you ever tried to cast a spell?"

Beowulf nodded again, the cold deepening, so it felt like it was spreading through his veins "It...didn't work." Desperately, he added, "But...but that's not uncommon, lots of cadets can't cast spells, I-"

"Most magic fields are too weak to do very much," the Bishop agreed. "Without the right materials, only the most talented among us can do very much. Our dear Reis and myself are rare exceptions to that rule. Wiegraf Folles was another. But Beowulf..." The Bishop sighed again. "You've been given the right materials. We've tested you in every school in which a Templar can presently be trained."

He rose from his seat, crossed to Beowulf's side. "Most of us can do little with a single finger-" he pointed at Beowulf. "But multiply that finger by five-" the rest of his fingers flicked out. "-and now we can do much more, no? But..." He closed his hand into a fist. "No matter how much you magnify nothing, it is still nothing."

The cold was in his thoughts now, a despair as heavy as that which had smothered him in the windmill on the Fovoham plains. "You're...what are you..."

The Bishop sighed once more. "You have almost no magical field to speak of. There is no art, no weapon, that will change that." He rested his hand on Beowulf's shoulder. "I am sorry, child."

Every legend he aspired to had some magical talent to make them so fearsome. Even Wiegraf Folles had his Bursting Blade. If Beowulf could not use magic...

If he could not use magic, he would never be a legend. Nothing of his broken dream remained.