Beyond Orion's veil

The full moon was pinned high in the sky. The lunar light reflected on the deep blue sea, making the night a spectacle. In its divine glory, Raelus gracefully moved under its light. Sand beneath his feet and a longsword in his hands, he moved from one sword form to another, seemingly cutting down the demons plaguing his mind.

Isolated and detached from everything around him, he could not hear the sea gently lapping on the beach or the whispers of the sea as winds howled over it.

Unperturbed by the cold and refreshing sea breeze as it brushed against his face and bare torso, he continued. His focus was as sharp as his blade, each swing inch-perfect and dignified. Through repetition, he turned the endless cycle of the sword forms into an elegant dance. Tasteful violence.

Raelus continued until he could not. His rugged breaths and heaving chest forced him to sheathe the sword. Viscous sweat flowed throughout his body. Displeased by the stickiness, he undressed and took a quick swim in a lagoon.

It had been almost half a year since he was brought onto this beach, and life since then had been hell. His past had taught him many things, but what he had learned recently mattered the most. It taught him that seawater does not quench thirst; it only accentuates it. He also discovered that raw fish is not all that bad.

Making a fire had proved impossible since he did not know how to make one in the first place, so he came to settle for raw fish that he could catch near the shore. He drank lagoon water from the few lagoons formed from the sandbars along the closed-off shore.

After finishing his midnight dip, he picked up his shirt and trousers from the beach and went to his home, a shallow indentation in the giant cliff in front of him. The cliff was a barrier, one that was preventing him from reaching the civilization living on top of it. After staring at the roof of the cave for a while, he fell asleep.

He could hear the chiming of bells at certain times during both the day and night, and he heard one now. It had woken him up. The chime alerted him that it was time. Time to get off the accursed beach.

He began his preparation. He removed the straps of the sword's sheath. He then picked up his coat, placed his belongings inside, and turned it into a wrap. The makeshift bag held a few pieces of jewelry, boots, a book, the longsword sheathed, and a dagger with dull and dented edges. All that reminded him of his home, way on the other side of the sea, he presumed.

Using the sheath's laces, he secured the wrappings onto his back tightly to stay in place and stashed a piece of cloth he had prepared the previous night under the wrappings. Everything in place, he took a last look at the cave before moving towards the edge of the closed-off beach. He had spent his time here scouting a way to the top, and two months ago, he had found one.

The wall of the cliff was jagged in some parts and smooth in others. Several mock climbs had helped him determine and shape his way to the top. He had calculated that by the time the next bell rang, he would reach the top if there were no complications.

Gathering enough courage, he began his ascent. Fear was nothing new to him. He had faced death twice now during the mock climbs, but still, he couldn't calm his heart as it violently thumped against his chest. Adrenaline pushed him up. He had found rhythm and hoped that the days of training would help him avoid wearing out way earlier than anticipated.

He was oblivious to how much time had passed, but from speculation, he was three-quarters through the climb. His focus was faltering. It was as if everything was a distraction. The winds from the sea were now colder, the walls were slightly getting moist with dew, and the sea was still and silent. The sky had turned grey as the nautical twilight set in.

The bright side was that he could see slightly above instead of blindly following the memorized path. One hand on the self-made notch, he reached for the cloth he had prepared. From there on, the climbing process evolved to wiping the moisture off before climbing up the notches and protrusions to avoid slipping to his death.

Despite the fear of the unknown coupled with thoughts of falling to his death gnawing at the back of his mind, he clung to hope just as tightly as he did to the notches.

 ••••••••

He lay on the slick, wet grass. His clothes were slowly moistening from the dew, but he could not care at all. His feet were dangling off the cliff with his accessories beside him.

His lungs, now filled with the fresh, cold morning air, reinvigorated him. He had closed his eyes to take it all in—the fact he had made it safely past the first hurdle of his journey—but he was not ready to move on just yet.

His eyes met the radiant light of the rising sun. The orange hue of dawn was beautiful, and with the sea beneath, the view was nothing short of captivating. He had sat up for some time staring into the distance where he believed he was from.

He was already missing home. He missed real food. The gentle warmth radiating from his stomach after drinking some wine. He wished he had someone to talk to. The solitude was cruel. He even yearned for the gruesome morning training sessions with his father, Ard Rí, Xyros Dé Aéracura. But he had to embrace his journey to come. He believed it was part of his duty as crown prince.

As his father told him then:

"The journey builds character," Xyros smiled. "It's a learning curve. You learn a lot. Probably they will be the best years of your life. Embrace it."

He did not know how he would survive seven years, but he could not give up yet. He had to honor tradition. He had to follow through.

His distracted thoughts drifted with the blowing wind. He unpacked and prepared himself for the journey ahead.

With boots and coat worn, he strapped the sword and dagger around his waist. Ready, he ventured out towards the silhouette of the city.