You Aren't Dead Yet, Are You!?

"You! What are you playing at!?" shouted Kabhathea from across the arena. Though her scolding was loud, it was distant, so I assumed there was nothing for me to worry about, and I continued my efforts, swinging my training sword to the best of my ability despite my fatigue. The soldiers around me were, for the most part, far more experienced than I, and I tried to copy their adept form, but it was more difficult than I expected.

"Psst! Godwin!" Marigold whispered.

"What?" I said, keeping my eyes forward.

"Godwin! Kabhathea's—"

"You," said Kabhathea, who was now stood right behind me. Horribly startled by this, I tripped mid-sword swing, dropped my weapon and stumbled half over.

"Y-yes, Commander," I said, stiffening my posture. Kabhathea was the leader of a particular cohort of soldiers that we had been assigned to. She was a tall, sturdy bulwark of a god with long, lavender hair that flowed in a strange, angular manner and small horn-like protrusions that stuck out along her cheekbones and arms. She had not been present at our hearing, so I assumed she must have been of a lower level of authority than Estille and the others, but there was little evidence of that in the way she carried herself—on the contrary, her needle-sharp stare and unyielding aura of control exerted a great pressure on the spirit of anyone in her vicinity.

"Pick up your weapon, fool," she said, crossing her arms. "Your technique is pitiful, and you lack focus. You're worthless to me like this! What is Estille thinking, pawning you two off on me..."

"Sorry," I said. "It's just that I've never done this sort of thing, not really."

"A so-called knight with no fight in him! What a disgrace." She began pacing around me, and from thin air she produced a training sword of her own and struck me in the shoulder.

"Agh! What—"

"Block!" she shouted, slashing at me again and again. "Block, you buffoon!"

I stumbled back, and, raising up my sword, I tried to deflect the next blow. Our weapons clashed with a wooden thunk, and for a moment I smiled, proud to have some small success, but my grin fell away at the sight of Kabhathea's wild eyes, through which I glimpsed a vision of my imminent defeat. Turning her blade with immense speed, she threw me off balance and attacked again from the other side. I managed to block a few of her strikes, but her superiority was quickly made apparent, and with a final powerful blow I was knocked to the ground.

Getting hold of my senses, I looked around. The other soldiers were all staring; some were laughing. Just fantastic.

"Ack!" I was struck again, in the abdomen. "Dammit! I'm down, I'm—"

"You aren't dead yet, are you?" said Kabhathea. "You must fight to the last breath!" I started to wonder if she was actually trying to kill me for real. "Prove it!" she shouted. "Prove your worth!" The pain was great, but the frustration was far greater. My worth? What was my worth to these people? What was it...? No, this was a familiar feeling. This world of gods and warriors, or the monotonous land of my origin—where did my value lie? Here was the potential for me to acquire the truth and glory I always sought, and I was floundering from the get-go.

I scowled and gripped my sword. "I'll prove it..." I muttered. My blood burned hot. "I am... a Holy Knight!" I shouted, taking a swing at Kabhathea with all my might.

I missed. Marigold snorted. My humiliation never ceased to amuse her.

"And you," said Kabhathea, turning toward Marigold, who nervously averted her eyes. "Look at me when I speak," Kabhathea said. "Your strength pales in comparison even to his. Estille has requested I give you some leniency due to your ability, but I will warn you: in your present state, your death on the battlefield would be swift. My patience will only last so long, so I suggest you stop laughing at the determination of your compatriots and start getting serious."

Marigold mumbled an insincere "sorry" and looked away again.

"What was that?" Kabhathea said. "Even your voice is frail."

Marigold took in a deep breath. I could tell she was trying to hold in her aggravation. "Sorry," she said again, louder.

"'Sorry' won't cut it in the Median. Both of you will come to auxiliary training. Return here when the bell rings ten."

"Listen, you..." Marigold said, raising her voice further. "You can't expect us to be perfect right away, and—" Kabhathea raised her sword, and I dashed in front of Marigold, bringing up my own weapon to protect her from the Commander's wrath. Kabhathea stopped, the edge of her wooden blade hovering just a hair away from mine, and she laughed.

"Be more like this idiot," she said, waving her sword back into nothingness. "If you're going to fight me, do it with a blade, not those flimsy words of yours."

*  *  *

"That Commander!" Marigold muttered angrily. "Who does she think she is...?"

"Well, she's a god," I said matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, a god. Whatever that is." Marigold hunched her neck forward, taking a bite of her stew.

"They're the rulers of everything—sovereign creators with divine power beyond our wildest imagination! What can we do but fall down at their feet?"

Marigold looked unconvinced. "I didn't think you were that much of a pushover. Let me guess, you're a momma's boy, too?"

"What? No! I was rather rebellious, I'll have you know!"

"Mm. Actually, that makes more sense. And you stood up to Kabhathea, too, so why act like you're going to be all subservient now?"

"Well, the Commander's unfair in some ways, yes. If I had my way, we'd be free to explore this world completely of our own accord, but we don't have that option. The way I see it, the best course of action is to ally ourselves with these gods. Perhaps if we train here, we may gain the power to liberate ourselves. Or, perhaps we won't need to. Many philosophies and old faiths define gods as perfect beings—if that is the case, then surely following them is the path to enlightenment!"

"Did your 'philosophy' predict that their world would be like this? All... mechanical?"

"Not exactly. I admit, there are many things about this place that baffle me. But, that's what excites me, Marigold!"

She shook her head. "I just—how can you trust philosophy? It's all speculation, isn't it? These gods don't seem so perfect to me. I mean, isn't it suspicious that Estille wouldn't tell us why Ariel turned traitor in the first place? Maybe he had a good reason—"

"Shh, don't talk about Ariel here, remember?" I whispered. I looked around the galley frantically, but thankfully, it seemed like no one had heard. The other knights hadn't been told where we had come from, and I hoped to avoid any confrontation about it. Marigold fell silent and continued eating.

"You're right, though," I said quietly. "It is strange, but still, I could feel their pain—Estille, Oemenon—all of them. I felt... bad." I stared up at the ceiling, letting the chatter of the room stream in like the constant noise of waves on the shore. What had I gotten us into...?

"Thank you, by the way." Marigold's voice pierced through the murmur of the crowd, and I looked down at her and raised an eyebrow. "For earlier, I mean," she said, lowering her voice and staring down at her empty bowl. "Kabhathea really got to me, and I—and you protected me. Even though I laughed at you. Sorry about that."

I cocked my head. "That's not like you, Marigold."

She gave me the side-eye. "Not like me? So you're an expert already?"

"What? No, I mean—forget it, OK? I just meant it was nice."

"So I'm not normally nice?"

"Agh, dammit, dammit!" Frustrated with my incompetence, I smacked myself in the head with my spoon.

Marigold chuckled. "It's OK. I know you didn't mean it like that."

"Oh..." Suddenly, I felt strangely relaxed. Marigold wasn't unkind, of course, but at that moment she seemed especially gentle. I saw her smiling up at me, and I smiled back a genuine, friendly smile. Her lip quivered, and her brow furrowed, and she covered her mouth, and I was afraid she was about to cry, but instead she laughed again.

"What?" I said, trying and failing to discern just what that rosy face of hers was reacting to.

"Sorry, it's just... with that expression—you got soup on your forehead! Looks like a unibrow... pfft!"

Ah, so I did! Such are the consequences of spoon-based self-flagellation... I wiped it off, and shortly thereafter the bell tolled, returning to us our anxieties, and we hurried back to the arena for our extra training.