Dawn of the Nephilim

2. Beginnings part II

Quarterstaff-champion! Ronan found himself grinning stupidly at finally having made it. That was a boost of confidence alright. As he looked up, he found the crowd eerily quiet. There was all manner of emotion visible, from slight worry to bemusement to outright awe. Roan, a member of the village council, was eyeing him with approval. Still, their silence gave him the heebeejibees, calling up a strange vision of looking at them from beyond the mists of immortality, too slow of mind to take notice. Then, somewhere at the back, a woman cried out – was it Ela? – ; "Hurray for Ronan!" And the village square erupted in a roar. People hurried forward to clasp his shoulders and to congratulate him. They called him a mighty good fighter and said he deserved to be made a skar and they looked forward to seeing him at the ceremony this evening. He was the man of the moment. Meanwhile, old Bindi bowed down over Ymre, who was just starting to stir again, tentatively opening a pair of drowsy eyes, seemingly disappointed about the somewhat dilapidated state of the maidens of paradise. Confident that his brains weren't scrambled too badly, she patronizingly patted his cheek, before turning her scrutinizing, blue eyes towards Ronan. Her face bore the wrinkles and faintly amused expression of one that has seen everything there is to see already.

"An impressive display of skill master Ronan. And perhaps an even more intriguing display of character." He managed a slightly hesitant nod in response. She always confused him with her cryptic comments. Before he could give it any more thought Aram flew into his arms, making him wince as a couple of particularly nasty bruises were strained. "I knew you could do it Ronan, I always knew you were the best quarterstaff fighter in the village. Well, besides maybe some of the skars, but they are much older."

As the babble of the boy, and the echoes of the voices of the villagers flowed over him, Ronan looked at his little brother. The same little Aram as always, yet not quite the same. They really did grow up faster than cabbage. He reaches to my chest now. A year ago he only reached my stomach. He will grow as tall as me, or taller. It was as if his face couldn't possibly have changed at all, but underneath the blond curls, a little more of that baby fat had disappeared. His big blue eyes were still wide and wondering, yet sometimes, even that look of spunge-like interest in any detail, was replaced by a more regal, mature depth. Sometimes Aram could make a very intelligent, sensible comment. Last month, he had displayed an unexpectedly detailed knowledge of married life, which had resulted in a shocked outcry from their mother, and a paddling from their father. He hadn't mentioned it since. There was one thing that hadn't changed however: he believed his brother could do anything. Ronan's eyes softened at Aram's raw display of faith. The best quarterstaff fighter in the village? If only he were.

"You bet Ar. I got him good. So good that I better go check whether I made turtle soup out of his brain. Would you go tell mom that I'm fine? You know she's always too worried to come watch. Thanks. I'll see you tonight."

As his brother ran away to spread the truthful tale of the day's events – he would probably be slaying mountain trolls by the edge of the square – , Ronan turned towards Ymre, who was just getting to his feet again. "You got me good this time Ronan." Speaking made him clasp his head between his hands with a grunt. "Better if you talk softly for a while, eh?" Ymre managed a pained grin. The rest of the people respected their moment together and wandered off. With the main event now over, they had other matters to attend. A measure of hallowing would have to be saved until the ceremony later tonight anyway.

"How's the head?" Ronan tried to hide his worry so as to not embarrass his friend, but knew it to be futile. Sparring was every day business for them, but there were always risks involved when it came to the braincase. "I tried to go easy on you, because it's widely known you haven't got much brain to spare. Even though I know your skull's as thick as a bear's."

"A what?"

"Nothing, something I've read about once. But seriously, how's the head? Ionara knows we've lost enough people this year already." He eyed his friend with a concerned frown. They knew each other since before they could rightfully be called toddlers. Ymre's face darkened.

"Aye. Guardians take that blasted fever. It sometimes seems like the world's all wrong these days. But my head's a little better already. Not much wit in there anyways, as you just unnecessarily pointed out. Gonna be a mighty swell though." Ymre was dividing his attention between his stomach, calves and head. None of those were giving him a good time.

"Good, then you can start training again so you can retake your title next year. That is, if we don't make it as skaran ti'anra first."

Ymre grunted. "You bet I will. And I will give you a good paddling before that as well. Taking me by surprise like that. I am impressed I must admit. I will limp for at least a week." Ymre carefully stretched his calves while making a face.

"You'll live."

Ronan grinned as he immersed himself in their familiar jesting. "You gave me quite a few reminders of our little encounter as well. I won't be sitting comfortably for the next week or so. No comfortable anything for that matter."

"No you won't" Ymre said in a merciless tone as he carefully straightened himself again. "And it serves you right. Taking me be surprise like that, ha!"

"Come on, let's get out of here." Ronan threw his arm around Ymre's shoulder as they walked away, making him wince.

"Sure, kick the man when he's downed already." But he didn't throw his arm off. "This time you'll be the subject of Bindi's chatter about keeping the old ways. Maybe even you will look good in the ceremonial clothes. At least prettier than you do now." He eyed Ronan with a longsuffering, taxing expression.

"Gods save us from the fashion sense of farmers... Ow!"

Ronan had to admit that his clothes looked a little worn. He had his easy soft leather boots, which were rarely ever clean. The knee-high footwear was ideal for moving through the swamp, where cleanness was not one of the primary demands for shodding. His loose, short breaches were torn, a few drops of blood tainting the brown fabric. He had read that blood was needed to transport life force through the body, but it always seemed to him as if its primary job was to remind humans of their squishy mortality. It was as the old saying went: 'The sun rises again in the morning, but man only remains as a memory of the wind.' His loose, short-sleeved jacket showed a lean, muscled upper body, lined with one big scar running from his left chest-muscle all the way to his hip. Ronan suppressed a shiver. He hated being reminded about that scar.

Ymre had regained his good mood, which rarely left him for long. It was as if the world and everybody in it were some sort of grand old joke to him, and his knowledge of its secret punch-line filled him with merriment year-round. For all his bluster, that bearded ox knows a thing or two about happiness. "Alright, I better go and see my mother. See you tonight mate" Ronan said. And with that, they parted ways again. Like the friends they had always been, and comfortably assured they would always remain just so.