Alekke cried himself empty, then fell asleep the way a snuffed candle goes out, pitifully and without dignity.
When he woke, the world felt colder, and not because the room changed.
His eyes ached, his throat felt scraped raw, and his limbs felt heavy.
He just lay there on the floorboards, staring at the still, immensely disappointed ceiling beams.
Alekke blinked slowly, and his breath fogged.
For a moment, Alekke didn't move.
Didn't feel like breathing.
Didn't feel like thinking.
He just existed. A small, pathetic bastard lying on cold floorboards, surrounded by unachievable greatness.
He felt lower than a bastard. Lower than dust. Lower than dung.
His breath hitched.
"What am I even doing…" He murmured, dragging a hand over his face.
Alekke knew exactly what he was doing. He was cataloging his failures. Again. His very familiar ritual. Every failure he cataloged was a masterpiece of despair. Admiring it. Savoring it. The audience was his own conscience.
The room watched him perform it with the patience of an old cantor observing a blighted repeat the same boring and pathetic confession for the millionth time.
He tried to roll onto his side. The floorboards jeered, or groaned. Either way, it was rude.
But it was just wood.
Just wood.
Just wood.
This wood was the world. Unmoving. Eternal in its indifference.
Alekke was so sick, sick, sick of this wooden eternity. His life… it screamed of reruns.
He didn't want to stay here anymore. He wants to leave—he could leave or could try. Alekke wants to get up and be someone.
But he could not bother… Instead, he rolled again.
Alekke pressed his face to the floorboards, smelling the centuries-old grain, hoping for some wisdom.
There was no wisdom, just dust.
He rolled onto his back; the ceiling was no longer disappointed but instead waiting. Waiting for something.
He lay there, staring up at it, his mouth slightly agape.
He was slightly embarrassed; he knew what the ceiling was waiting for.
The ceiling wanted him to get up.
"I can't be bothered."
The ceiling didn't accept that answer.
The ceiling was no longer judgmental; it was patient and insisted that he get up.
"No," he whispered. "I don't want to."
The ceiling insists.
"...Be quiet."
The ceiling insists.
He groaned and turned away from the ceiling, rolling onto his side, ignoring it.
It finally shut up. He faintly smirked at his small, ignoble victory.
His beautiful victory was short-lived. The Great Knights are now insisting.
"Get up," they insisted, "get up."
Alekke swallowed.
"Have a look at yourself—lamenting as though death has already won you. I have faced it five times, and yet never appeared so undone. Pray tell, how shall you become a great knight in shining armor, if you wear the look of a dead man?" Ser Aldric said. "Get up, ye' poor bastard!"
Alekke stayed silent.
"Uhhhhhhh….." The first brother of the seven oath brothers said.
Alekke swallowed.
The Seven-Oath brothers all came from the same mother, and they were all as dumb as a rock. They were remembered because of their heart of gold, and their Gods-sent chivalry
"Get up. You know a man… uhhh… a man… Oh no, I've forgotten!!" Brother Two said he forgets a lot.
Alekke's heart started thumping.
"Get up, lad! Knights do not lie on the floor unless they've died on it, unless… Wait a minute… Gods… Are you dead?!" Brother Three said.
Brother Four laughed hysterically. "Get up! Gods, ye' look like a burnt pancake! I command thee to stop being a burnt pancake!"
Alekke scoffed.
"Stand, ye' limp noodle! Gallop! Gallop! Gallop!" Brother Five said.
Alekke placed his hands on his ears; their voices didn't stay quiet for a second.
"Ye' need a mother! Aye, Aye, Mother fixes all things. She'd lift ye' by the ears, feed ye', and set ye' straight!" Brother Six said.
They are so loud now; they used to be just whispers, but now they are all shouting.
"Get up ye' nincompoop! Even the lowliest worm must wriggle upward lest the rain drown it. Right this moment yer' lower than even the lowliest worm, so stand, boy! And let me warn ye' boy, Destiny is a galloping horse that loves trampling the idle." Brother Seven said.
Alekke was reaching his breaking point.
"Stand. A swordsman who refuses to rise is not defeated; he is forgotten. There is a difference, and believe me, it's cruel."
"Aghhh!!!!" He shouted, standing up abruptly. "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!! Go back to being whispers!"
Suddenly everything around him fell silent; he could feel himself breathing, he could hear the sermon of the smith's hammer, and his thoughts had finally returned.
Alekke stood there, trembling, his breathing heavy, his forehead dripping with sweat, and his hands falling from his ears.
For a moment, he didn't move.
His chest rose and fell in uneven waves.
He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve, smearing sweat across his cheek.
Alekke swallowed hard, and his throat was burning.
He was afraid a servant may have heard him. He didn't want a servant anywhere near him right now.
Alekke rubbed his face with both hands, trying to wipe away every last remnant of panic.
Once his hands fell from his face, he stared down at the books. They weren't disappointed anymore; rather, it's as if they are giving him a big thumbs up, clapping and hooraying for him.
Not just the books but the walls, the floorboards, the ceiling—everything around him was proud.
Alekke blinked.
His breath trembled out of him in a shaky exhale.
Alekke had no idea what to feel or what to do. Should he smile? Should he cry? Should he feel proud? Should he feel all of the above?
"W—what's wrong with you guys…? You all were just berating me, and now you're just… applauding?" he said shakily. "I just… S–stood, that's all…"
Before he knew it, his eyes burned. Then they overflowed, and tears slipped free, catching the light like cheap, pathetic jewels. His mouth pulled upward before he could stop it, and then he was smiling a big, bright, and accomplished smile.
Alekke was terribly embarrassed.
He let out a loud, almost obnoxious but victorious laugh. "...I have risen!" he declared.
The declaration echoed off the stone walls and then back into its archives.
He quickly clapped a hand over his mouth, mortified. He was too loud.
"You're—right! Headmaster Aric Vaelor is coming!" Alekke blurted, tumbling over his words. "I—I need to get in somehow… I don't care how."
His eyes started to brighten with passion. "You don't understand—this isn't just a chance. This is it. I have to do something."
He stared down the door as if it was an opponent he needed to slay.
He was afraid of it, but he needed to do something. His life was on the line.
He cannot just waste this opportunity. When else will an opportunity like this return?
Everything around him was waiting but silent, not like before, all waiting. Will Alekke shrink down again, or will he actually try?
He swallowed and stepped forward.