Chương 32: Labor of the Flesh

Jordan woke to two blinking lights, spinning like the erstwhile double sun. But the lights soon faded as his senses came back to him. He realized he was indoors—back inside the dormitory, to be exact. His first instinct was to touch his nose. Where he expected badly swollen mush, he instead found… well, his own nose. Slightly sensitive to the touch, but intact and straight as far as he could tell. He also noticed that his HP was back up to full.

Surely, he hadn't been unconscious for long enough to have proc'd a [Long Rest], which meant someone had cast a healing spell on him. He vaguely wondered if a broken nose was a 'minor' enough injury to be covered by [Cure Wounds].

"Jordan, you're awake!" Pewter's slightly double-chinned face popped into view, smiling. With the rough morning behind him, the man seemed to have recovered his cheerful attitude. Jordan tried to sit up, then had to stop himself halfway. His head swam something fierce, nearly causing another black-out. Only with Pewter's help did he manage to pull himself upright, after which the swooning sensation was replaced by a dull throbbing headache.

"Careful, Jordan. The doctor said this might happen. You need to take it easy for the rest of the day."

"Just for the rest of today? Don't I need to, I dunno, enter a concussion protocol or something?"

"A concussion what? Are you a doctor, Jordan? Is that the Yu family business?" Jordan shook his head, then stopped before it could bring on more symptoms. He let out a wry chuckle, though none of this was really a laughing matter. For all the Stormvasters' spellcasting, they seem to be a ways off from modern medicine. Guess the only way to protect myself from CTE is to make sure I never get another concussion.

"You… seem to be in good spirits, Jordan. I'm glad."

"So do you. And all it took to cheer you up was to see me get knocked out cold by our drill instructor."

"That's not what I—! But you're right, Jordan. I do owe you an apology." Jordan gave Pewter a searching look. The man averted his gaze, as if ashamed by what he had to say next.

"It's because of my shortcomings… that you've had such a painful introduction to life in the barracks. I failed to prepare you for the inspection, even though I knew it was Zhurong's Day today. And I also goaded you into that… that display on the drill square, which then brought down the ire of Ranger Quiv—""You didn't goad me into anything. That was just me clowning, and I deserved to be disciplined. I didn't deserve to be concussed, maybe, but… one battle at a time, eh?" Pewter considered this for a moment.

"… The Rangers… both Heron and Finch. They may be harsh, but they mean well. They'd like nothing more than for each and every one of us to turn out as capable and formidable a spellcaster as they themselves. I hope you wouldn't disdain them on my account." Jordan didn't answer right away. In truth, his feelings on the matter were somewhat complicated. He of course understood on some level. That some lessons had to be learned the hard way. That these Rangers happened to have a very loose limit on just how hard.

Their lessons would stick, Jordan had no doubt. But did that mean he had to agree with their methods? If this were 21st-century Earth, Jordan would be well within his rights to report to HR, rally his fellow victims, whistleblow to the press, etc etc. Quite frankly, though, that just wasn't how he wished to spend his time in Stormvast. It's not my fight, he decided. It probably is someone's fight—maybe even someone living in Stormvast right now—and all the power to them.

As for me, though, I'm just gonna put my best foot forward and make some delicious lemonade. There he went mixing metaphors again. A bad habit from his lyric-writing days. Which was just as good a cue as any for him to get back on topic.

"Don't worry about me, Pewter. I'm nothing if not resilient and adaptable. In fact, I used to put that exact phrase on my résumés, for all the good it did me. And I do gotta give it to that Finch Quiverwing. He definitely isn't just a nerd wizard." The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

"… Right. Well, I'm glad you for one are able to keep a positive outlook in the face of setbacks. Whereas myself…"

"… You seem plenty cheerful to me. Something got you down?" Pewter fell silent. He opened and closed his mouth several times, clearly struggling to put something into words.

"It's okay, man," Jordan interceded.

"I understand. At least I think I do." A Tetherer from a family of Metallurgists. The only son to join the Army, and at the curiously late age of 28. It didn't take a genius to put two and two together. And having deduced the main beats of Pewter Sapling's 'backstory', Jordan's admiration for his new friend only grew. Dude's got heart, that's for damn sure. The way he took my punishment without a word of complaint. The way he came at me at the sparring session. He's exactly the kind of guy I'd want for my…

"Say, Pewter. How would you like to be my gym buddy?"

"… Is that a medical term? I don't think I'm familiar."

"It just means we work out together. Push each other, have each other's backs, you know? I had a buddy like that back in university, and that was definitely the most swole I'd ever been in my life. I want to… no, I need to get back to that… if I have any hope of not being a liability to my own goddamned Vessel." The message got through to Pewter, Earthling slangs and all. As understanding dawned, so too did an excited smile spread over his two chins.

"Sounds like a plan, buddy. When do we start?"

"Well, clearly not today. Doctor's orders, right? Tomorrow though. And if I try to get out of it, you punch me in the face, yeah?"

"R—really?"

"No, don't do that. I don't want another concussion. But yeah, we do gotta hold each other accountable."

"So that we can both reach our goals."

"You got it." Jordan stuck out a hand. Force of habit. Pewter hesitated a moment, then took it eagerly, becoming the second Stormvaster ever to shake an Earthling's hand.

Some time later, Jordan felt well enough to join his platoon for dinner. The vibes were much different to breakfast, starting with the pace at which everyone ate. The same lunch lady doled out baskets of steamed buns served with a side of pickled veggies and nuts. Not the most extravagant dinner, perhaps, but it was surprisingly tasty, even to a Jordan who'd done nothing but lay about all afternoon. The atmosphere was quite relaxed. Neighbors chatting, loud jokes flying.

Some recruits even threw bits of steamed bun at each other, much to the lunch lady's stern displeasure. Jordan soon discovered that his morning antics had since become something of a hot topic. More than a few recruits made eye contact with him across the table, only to then pinch their nose and laugh. At first, he thought they might be making fun of his smell, until he realized it was a joke about his broken nose.

After that, he joked right alongside his platoon-mates, if only to demonstrate that he was perfectly capable of laughing at himself. It's the same anywhere you go, he mused wryly. A hilarious fuck-up (after the fact, at least) is the surest way to bring a workplace together. He, being the unc of the group, was more than happy to entertain the troops at his own expense. That night, Jordan had some trouble falling asleep, perhaps for the first time since his initial jet lag.

Couldn't be helped, he supposed, given how much of the day he'd spent either resting or unconscious. After some time listening to a chorus of 29 snores, he decided to get up and breathe in some air that didn't smell like the inside of a hockey gear bag. It was a full moon, perfect for a midnight walk. But loitering after curfew was as much a crime in here as it was outside the gates. As such, Jordan hugged the walls of the dormitory, not daring to tempt fate or the lantern light of a patrolling sentry.

At least that had been the plan, until he heard… Swish, splash … swish, splash… Jordan frowned. Who could be watering plants at this hour? Curiosity getting the better of him, he inched closer to the courtyard and peeked around a corner. A lone figure stood—nay, danced —in the middle of the drill square. The man was bare-chested, his tunic undone and rolled down to his waist. Upon his shoulders balanced a long stick, weighed down by buckets of water on either end.

A carrying pole —the kind used by old-timey workers to lug around heavy objects. Well, buckets full of water were certainly up there as far as 'heavy objects' went. And the man's muscles glistened with sweat and rippled with effort as he swayed, pirouetted, and even jumped with the pole laid flat across his shoulders. Some of the water spilled out, accounting for the sound that had drawn Jordan to the spectacle.

Yet most stayed perfectly put inside their buckets, speaking to the powerful precision of the man's movements. Jordan stared, mesmerized… until the moonlight caught the man's face just right, revealing him to be one Heron Catchgrain. Jordan ducked behind the corner, heart pounding a mile a minute. Suddenly deathly afraid of being caught loitering after curfew, he decided to cut short his midnight walk. As he crawled back into bed, however, he entertained two prominent thoughts—one old, the other brand new.

First was the confirmation that yes, there certainly was more to these Stormvaster spellcasters than being nerd wizards. Second was that he just might have found the perfect exercise for him and his new gym buddy.