A Spark in the Wind

Chapter 22: Rising through the Ranks

Vil slid his hand over the riveted mail, smiling profoundly as he felt the risen bits of metal. And there was good reason for it – it was one of the finest armours he had ever seen. A hundred thousand links of steel, a year of hard work.

"It's so smooth," he said drowsily, "it feels like wool, yet you can't pass a needle through the links."

Mey lowered his head onto the mail, brushing the soft rings on his cheek. Never had he imagined a piece of metal would be this comfortable. It was six kilos of elven steel, yet softer than wool. "Truly a glorious creation," he said, "I've never seen such a thing before."

"Neither has anyone but the folk of the greatest prestige. This is royal mail."

"I'm happy for you," he shook his head, "don it on, you'll be nigh invincible."

"No," Vil replied, holding the shirt up to his chest. It was too small to fit his massive figure, and too tight across the chest. "This is not for me, I ordered it for you."

Mey's eyes widened in confusion, Vil had ordered armour of the greatest quality for him? How would he ever accept such an expensive gift? Maybe it was Vil just wanting to ensure nothing bad ever happened to him, or maybe it was him being a follower of his own ideologies.

"No," Mey replied at length, "I can't accept it. And by the way, I'm not the one who madly charges into enemy lines, ignoring all stabs of spear and sword like mosquito-bites. You do."

Vil laughed, but his laughter stopped as the pain in his belly singed. No matter how heroic he made himself to be, he was only mortal at the end of the day. The herbs had healed a great deal, but it still pained him.

Mey moved forward, covering his bandaged wound with his hand. "Wounds don't heal if you keep touching them."

"The pain is not physical," he replied sorrowfully, "but in my heart."

Mey looked at him with concern, "how much pierogis did you eat for lunch exactly?"

"Sixteen, why?"

Mey shook his head in disappointment. "Vil, you have an injury in your abdomen, can't you control your gluttony for a couple days? Not like your pierogi will run away or something."

Vil laughed. "No, it's not acidity. I mean, I feel bad for the Master of Change."

Mey looked at him with a troubled face, "he tried to kill you, and would have succeeded if not for Raucion and your father."

"I know," Vil responded, "but still, not like he was doing it out of spite. And don't we all want to attain salvation from this constant cycle of birth and rebirth? He had a chance to be free, to know the Ultimate Truth, merge with the godhead, attain Ziyu . . . and because of Nixior it couldn't happen."

"Don't worry, he'll get another chance to, I'm sure of that."

...

Vil lowered his head in sorrow, the pain still throbbing in his gut, the uneasiness of it following every breath. What was baffling to him was that he succumbed to a wound the meekest partisan would shrug off. He placed his hand on the red cotton, ever so gently pushing. It was painful, but he acted otherwise.

"Stop it," Mey said in an authoritative yet tender voice, "you're hurting yourself."

"Nah, it's nothing," he assured him, only to draw out a red palm, stained by his own blood. "Why does it hurt so much?"

"Because: when the spear skewered your guts, a lot of nerve endings were damaged," Meneldir answered, "and now you're touching those unguarded nerves."