Weight and Stillness

Chapter 3 - Weight and Stillness

Cold lingered in the workshop that morning.

A thin fog still clung between the wooden buildings when Zio stood in the back yard of the workshop. The ground beneath his feet was cold and slightly damp, rough enough that he noticed it the moment he let his weight sink fully downward. He wore no footwear. Trod had not told him to take it off, and Zio had not asked.

Trod stood a few steps in front of him.

He wasn’t imposing at first glance. His frame was compact, shoulders plain, nothing exaggerated. He stood straight without effort, feet planted with a steadiness that discouraged movement.

“Still,” Trod said.

Zio stopped moving.

His breath reacted before the rest of him. It caught for half a second, then slid out slowly. His chest lowered, then rose again, more carefully than usual.

“Don’t search for a stance,” Trod continued. “Let your body find it.”

Zio stayed silent, eyes fixed ahead. The ground held his attention—wood grain, a stone, hardened prints. He held his position.

Morning air brushed his neck. Cold moved down his calves and stopped at his left ankle. A familiar stiffness sat there, unchanged from yesterday.

“Weight,” Trod said.

Zio understood.

He let his weight settle. His knees stayed loose. The ground met more of his feet, and his toes pressed into the dirt on their own.

“Don’t lock,” Trod said.

Zio loosened. A small sway followed. He almost reacted, then stopped himself.

Trod said nothing.

The sway faded on its own.

Zio’s breath stuttered mid-inhale. He held it, then let it out slowly, half-expecting another command.

Warmth gathered at his temples. His calves answered next, a faint tapping from inside that refused to be ignored. He stayed where he was. Feet firm on the cold ground, breath steady, passing through him without effort.

Trod watched without shifting.

“Stay,” he said.

Zio did not move.

Trod circled him. His boots touched the earth without intention to be heard, as though he did not want to intrude on whatever was unfolding inside the boy’s body. He stopped behind Zio.

“Hold.”

Zio did not ask what. He already felt it. The tapping in his calves merged, spread upward, reached into his inner thighs. It was not pain that forced itself forward, more like pressure that demanded full awareness. Each inhale added a thin layer of weight to his chest. Each exhale eased it slightly, never fully.

“Don’t shift,” Trod said again, his voice lower.

Zio fixed his focus. His left knee began to tremble. He did nothing to stop it. The movement lingered, then eased on its own.

No further instruction came.

The heat in his calves stayed where it was. Zio did not wait for a command. The thought of moving passed.

Trod halted beside him. “Don’t chase balance.”

Zio swallowed. The tremor flared briefly, then shrank again. He let it pass, without following it.

“If you rush to correct,” Trod went on, “you fall first.”

His calves tightened longer than he wanted them to.

Sweat gathered along Zio’s back, though the sun was still low. A drop slid from his temple to the ground, darkening a small patch of dust.

“Right foot,” Trod said.

Zio realized his weight had drifted. He adjusted it by a margin barely visible. The small change pulled his core into work. His breath caught for a fraction of a second.

“Shoulders down,” Trod said.

Zio lowered them. A brief release followed, then the pressure settled elsewhere. Lower back. One side of his hip.

He wanted to move. The urge came sharp and sudden, like reflex. He held it back.

“Good,” Trod said.

The next stretch felt heavier. Tremors returned, this time at his ankles. Zio bit the inside of his cheek to keep from reacting.

Trod kept his hands to himself. He watched from nearby, close enough to notice, without stepping in.

“If you fall,” he said, “you fall.”

Zio remained standing. His body worked hard, his face stayed still. He no longer knew how long he could hold, and for the first time since he began, he stopped trying to guess.

Trod stepped into the workshop and came back carrying an iron block. He set it down in front of Zio’s feet. The metal met the ground with a dull sound.

“Lift it.”

Zio looked down at the block. He bent, took it with both hands, and straightened. The strain reached his shoulders before his arms caught up.

“Hold it here,” Trod said, pointing a finger toward the space in front of Zio’s chest. “Not against you. Not far.”

Zio lifted the block and held it away from his body. Tension crept into his arms. His breathing grew shallow.

“Still,” Trod said.

At first, the weight stayed where it belonged. Then it began to spread, searching for gaps. Heat built in his wrists. His fingers wanted to grip harder. He stopped them.

The block vibrated faintly.

“If it shakes, let it,” Trod said. “Don’t chase it.”

Zio swallowed. The vibration stayed, crawling from his hands up his forearms, settling hard at his elbows.

Sweat dripped onto the iron, leaving dark marks that dried quickly.

“Hold.”

One inhale felt heavier than the last. Zio sensed his back rounding without realizing.

“Straight,” Trod said.

Zio drew his shoulders back. The block dipped a few inches before he caught it, and the shift carried through his stance.

The block fell.

Dull metal struck earth, loud in the quiet yard.

Zio instinctively bent again.

“Pick it up,” Trod said.

Zio crouched. His hands trembled when they touched the iron. He lifted it again, faster this time. The block pulled his arms down, wrists tightening before his breath caught up.

“Hold.”

Several seconds passed. The block slipped again and met the ground with a dull sound.

Zio stood still, staring at the ground.

“Pick it up,” Trod said.

He lifted it a third time. His arms felt dense, like they had been filled with wet sand. His breathing sounded loud in his own ears.

This time the block stayed in his hands. His arms shook, but it did not drop.

Trod said nothing. He waited, letting Zio’s body find its own edge.

Martha appeared without clear footsteps. She stopped at the edge of the yard, a small basket in one hand. Its cloth cover was still neatly in place.

She did not speak at first.

Her eyes went to the iron block in Zio’s hands. Then to his trembling arms. Then to his face, too calm for something so clearly heavy.

“Trod,” she said at last.

Trod did not turn. “Don’t stop him.”

“I didn’t say stop,” Martha replied.

The block sank another inch. Zio held his breath without realizing.

“How long has it been?” Martha asked.

“Enough,” Trod answered.

She snorted quietly. “That’s always your answer.”

She crouched slightly to meet Zio’s eye line. “Can you hear me?”

Zio gave a small nod. His gaze did not shift.

“If it drops, it drops,” Martha said, her voice low. “Don’t force it.”
She glanced at Trod, then looked away.

The block finally fell. The sound was softer than before. Zio did not move at once.

Only then did Trod turn. “I said don’t stop him.”

“I didn’t touch him,” Martha replied. “I only spoke.”

Trod exhaled through his nose. “That’s enough speaking.”

Martha stood. She extended the basket toward Zio without pushing it on him. “Eat later. Not now.”

Zio nodded again. His hands hung at his sides. His fingers felt unfamiliar.

“He looks pale,” Martha said.

“He’s aware,” Trod replied.

“That’s not the same thing.”

Trod did not answer. He looked at Zio. “Pick it up again.”

Martha started to speak, then stopped. She set the basket beside a low wooden block, keeping it out of the way.

“I’ll come back this evening,” she said, more to the air than to either of them.

She turned and left, her steps quicker than when she arrived.

Zio bent and took hold of the iron once more.

It felt heavier than before. The weight settled into his shoulders faster this time.

He lifted it slowly. Elbows slightly bent, shoulders trying to settle as taught. Breath in through the nose, out through the mouth. Short. Uneven.

The first seconds held.

His arms shook again. Muscles tightened, released, then tightened once more.

“Don’t chase strength,” Trod said. “Chase stillness.”

Zio nodded, but the block sank half an inch. He tried to correct it, forcing his arms back to position. His back tightened with them. He realized the mistake too late.

The edge of his vision dimmed.

He held.

One small step backward. The ground beneath his feet felt uneven, though he knew it was not.

The block slipped free.

It did not crash. His hands opened. The dull sound met the earth, then quiet.

Zio dropped to one knee. His right hand touched the ground first, then the left. His head hung low, breath caught in his throat.

He did not faint.

“Up,” Trod said.

Zio tried. His knee did not obey at once. A pause followed, long enough to feel humiliating, then he managed to stand using his own hands.

His face was pale. Cold sweat clung to his temples.

Trod stood before him. Not close. Not far.

“You lost,” he said.

Zio swallowed. “I know.”

“Good,” Trod replied. “That means you know when to stop.”

Zio nodded faintly. Breath dragged in, then out, uneven but steady.

Trod nudged the iron block aside with his foot, clearing Zio’s path. “Sit.”

Zio sat without argument. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers slowly losing their tremor.

“You’re not broken,” Trod said. “Just not ready.”

Zio stared at the ground. He did not feel defeated. He felt hollow, as if something inside him had just been shut off.

Trod did not explain further. Zio stopped waiting for one.

By the time the shadows reached the far wall, his legs felt heavier.

Light in the back yard shortened, slid from the ground to the wall, then climbed the wooden boards scarred with old nail marks. The air thinned. His joints resisted when he shifted.

He walked beside Trod toward the front of the workshop. The pace did not change. His steps stayed measured.

Zio left the workshop without looking back. His steps found the road on their own, shorter than in the morning, uneven in places.

By the time he reached his door, the shaking in his calves had not stopped.
He stood there until it eased enough to trust his weight, then stepped inside without looking back.