The forest glade had never felt so empty.
As Rowan swung his blunted sword through repetitive forms under the oak's boughs, his movements held more urgency, as if by training even harder he could somehow bridge the gulf between himself and Elia. Each strike landed with punishing force, yet brought him no catharsis, for his soul still cried out for its other half.
Never had these bowers seemed so silent. Once Elia's laughter had echoed among the bowls like birdsong, lighting Rowan's steps with hope. But though sunrise yet breathed life into the canopy, not a trill nor rustle of undergrowth could lift the darkness clouding his spirit. Each training circuit only reminded him of her absence, of promises sworn amid parting's shadows to see these glades made refuge once more.
And so Rowan drove himself beyond known limits, heedless of straining sinews or shortness of breath. Come dusk he collapsed where stood, body breaking at last beneath the torrent of grief, longing and determination warring within. Sleep brought no rest, haunted as it was by memories clutched close as talismans against loneliness' deepening claws.
Yet each dawn found Rowan rising before the sun, alone beneath the solitary oak's outspread arms. His pledge would not be denied - through flesh becoming steel and steel honed to lethal grace, he would forge a shield worthy of Elia's light. These bowers would know peace once more, though he must walk every fathom of that road unaided. For her, any trial could be endured. Only her return could breathe life back into this barren sanctuary of souls intertwined. Rowan rose before dawn and made the weary trek to the training yard, muscles already protesting their impending punishment. Yet his sparring session with Geralt was the sole light piercing each new day's shroud of sorrow.
The gruff veteran watched Rowan run through conditioning drills with a critical eye, correcting any flaws in stance or form. Then the true trial began - hours of relentless sword work under the rising sun. Blunted blades sang as they struck in an intricate dance, each parry and riposte fueling Rowan's embers of strength.
Sweat stung his eyes and burned every fresh cut, but the burning in his limbs was consecration. Geralt showed no mercy, raining down blows that tested flesh and spirit to their limits. More than once Rowan faltered, crashing to dirt muddied by blood and toil. But he would rise again, heeding only the command in Geralt's eyes to push on despite body screaming for reprieve.
In these trials of sand and steel, Rowan found fleeting escape from loneliness' grip. Each bruise and straining muscle grouped him to present, obliterating all senses save the rhythm of combat. And so, the days blurred into endless cycles, with Rowan appearing from each bout a little stronger, forms and techniques evolving with hard-earned fluidity.
Only in sleep could solace be snatched from memories, as the forest awoke each night to haunt his dreams. But dawn soon roused him again to punish flesh made by sadness, and steel his spirit against the howling voices clawing at resolve's breaking point. This purgatory would fashion a blade to shield all he held most dear, however long the hone, Rowan pushed through each dawn's drills with relentless focus, sparring's thudding rhythm the lone refrain amid shadow's chorus. Yet complacency would breed weakness, so he devised new trials to hone body and will to razor's edge.
First was timing conditioning circuits, marking routes through familiar paths. Each morn saw him matching, then surpassing yesterday's pace. His breath became a metronome guiding limbs quickening by degrees.
Sparring too faced the chronometer's glance. Rowan began documenting exchanges blow by blow, analyzing flaws and openings. Then applying lessons as Geralt's attacks blurred yet faster. Parries shifted from reactive to intuitive, ripostes following hard on defiance's heels.
Before long Rowan measured not minutes but seconds between circuits and bouts. His body flowed liquid as quicksilver from one form to the next. Though flesh and steel met in fury undimmed, the dance held new grace. Each bested time was etched in training yard dust, goading him to new peaks of perfection.
Thus did days and seasons unfurl, with Rowan emerging swifter from each trial. Pain and weariness knew him intimately yet could not dim resolves honed sharper than any blade. Soon he matched even Geralt's brutal onslaught, turns shaving narrower from peril's edge. This was salvation - to barrier the mind against memories through flesh transcending mere endurance. Each new limit shattered was obeisance to the light guiding his steps from afar.
Rowan emerged from another dawn's trials, muscles burning with familiar purgative fires. Glancing back, he gauged the training ground's length in paces, timing each swing and lunge. Progress was writ large wherever his gaze fell - from burns scarred thicker upon arms once scrawny, to endurance pushing past all imagined boundaries.
His techniques had been reforged through seasons of blood and callouses into seamless, fluid strikes. Even Geralt's storms of steel broke upon this hone, though he drove attacks beyond all mercy. The years had etched their sigils deep - into the taught cords of Rowan's neck, rippling canvas of his back mapped by scars of determination.
Yet for all flesh crafted perfect as any weapon, the vessel remained hollow. No matter how swift or potent his blade, shadows dogged each footstep. Within this newly formed shell of sinew and bone lingered an ache no amount of steel nor sun could diminish.
In sparring's furor or conditioning's tranquil trance, Rowan found ways to drown loneliness for fleeting spans. But dusk inevitably saw its fangs sink deeper, mawing relentlessly at fraying edges of sanity. Without Elia's light to shield him, how long could this prison of flesh and memory hold before crumbling utterly?
Gazing now to the east, Rowan offered a whispered prayer to stars veiled by dawn, hoping their light yet warmed the one guiding his every footfall. Her return seemed farther than ever across these past stretches of tears and steel. But his promise would endure, until hand found hand once more in glade whispering of souls eternally woven.
Beneath a sea of scintillating stars, Rowan sank to the forest floor, limbs trembling with exertion and regret's insidious toxins. Here was solace's sole balm left to soothe his fraying soul - communing with the heavens granting a glimpse of what remained forbidden.
On nights when loneliness' jaws gaped widest, he turned longing eyes to the sprawl of constellations stretching endlessly above the glade. Somewhere amid that river of light journeyed Elia's essence, perhaps stealing glimpses of these same stars from a palace balcony. Could she feel the thread binding their spirits, pulling taut with each ray tracing its path?
Closing tired lids, Rowan let Celestial chorus wash over senses numbed by separation's toll. In its ebb and flow he heard her soft laughter ride currents dancing upon night winds. Felt warmth of her touch calming pulse throbbing with hoarded memories too poignant for daylight to bear. Lips yet recalled fleeting benedictions traded 'neath the boughs sweeter than any fruit of spring.
When dawn finally dragged him from refuge of dreams, Rowan rose renewed in his vow to Elia and future awaiting beyond tomorrow's trials. As long as heavens bore testament to souls woven eternal, their reunion remained assured. And so, he turned resolute steps to training yard's familiar refrain, stars yet gleaming guideposts lighting the long road. The clang of sparring steel rang through the training yard as Rowan met Geralt's onslaught. Though dawn found him weary, each parry seemed surer, ripostes flowing into the next form without pause for thought.
Geralt pressed forwards relentlessly, rain of strikes seeking any flaw in Rowan's guard. But his defenses held firm as an oak against winter gales. Where once fatigue would have stayed his blade, now it sang swift as quicksilver through each motion.
Their dance reached a crescendo, blades flashing too quick for untrained eyes. Seeing an opening, Geralt feinted right and lunged left. But Rowan pivoted with inhuman grace, parrying the killing blow aside and stomping the veteran's foot, yielding a grunt of surprise.
Their bout ended in a standstill, both combatants stepping back to catch breath. A rare smile touched Geralt's weathered features. "You continue astounding me, boy. No student of mine has matched such strides." Pride swelled Rowan's chest, though he bowed respectfully.
Praise from this man was sweeter than any accolade. Through him, Rowan's flesh had been reforged as murderous grace in steel's embrace. But his teacher alone knew it was solace digging in dusk's jaws that truly drove him to transcend all thought of rest or care for battered flesh. Until Elia's light again broke these boughs, no limit could be acknowledged in his spiraling ascent. Their reunion would come, however long the hone demanded. The years had etched themselves deep into Rowan's sinewed frame, scarring spirit no less than flesh. Seventeen springs had passed into memory, each laden with enough toil to fashion half a dozen warriors.
Now he appeared from dawn's trials a man rather than youth, strength rippling beneath alabaster skin stretched taut over corded muscle. The sword nestled naturally in his grip sang death's sweetest song, wholly an extension of the killing grace flowing through taught limbs.
Within this mortal shell dwelled reserves, no normal man could dream. Blades could cleave stone yet failed to pierce his guard. Balance and poise deserted foes clumsy before boots dancing faster than fall of rain. Each motion honed to perfection's cutting edge, steel answering mind's slightest whim.
Yet Rowan knew another power slumbered deeper, veiled by will's restraint. During lonely vigils, its stirring whispered, sea-change surging just beyond senses' shores. On those nights he scarcely recognized visage reflected in forest pools, wreathed by aura of might that set even veterans' tongues loose.
Now seventeen springs had delivered him thus - a warrior to make legends shudder. All that remained was reuniting with light guiding his every footstep since consciousness' dawn. Soon Elia's return would breathe life once more into glade and soul alike. Their reunion was nigh, after trials enough to forge a thousand heroes. He had become her shield in truth, and none could now bar their way. The hour of Elia's return was close at hand, yet unrest gnawed at Rowan's core.
Oft he gazed westwards as sun stained the quilt of trees amber, questioning what road she traveled and if her essence yet yearned for road's end. Elia's light had outshone all the stars gleaming above this backwater village since memory's dawn. But the Academy had granted a glimpse of vistas, more splendid, adventures scarcely dreamed of in these quiet woods.
What then, if her passage strayed towards grander horizons where wonders and peril awaited in boundless measure? Could soul nurtured on tales of derring-do be sated returning to patrol rustic lanes? Would she chafe at the confines of this sleepy hamlet after tasting glories beyond counting?
Doubt's serpent coiled ever tighter around Rowan's heart at such musings. Yet he dared not voice apprehensions, lest faith - sole bulwark 'against desolation's tide' - began crumbling at whispers. No matter her direction, his oath remained inviolable: Elia's safety was flesh of his flesh. Where her steps led, shield and sword would shadow, against any peril until Time's last grain sifted into Oblivion's void.
Still Rowan braced for change's chill winds, sharpening armor of spirit as winter whets bite. Their meeting's outcome altered not duty's irrevocable line, though change stalked, disquiet shadowing Hope's radiance under moon-bleached bowers. Her essence would guide him, whatever currents Time lost upon Elia's journey's end.