As the days went by, it became clear that Nathan's strength was fading. He could do less and less, whether due to his advanced age or the toll of the harsh conditions we lived in. Now, the task of digging the tunnel had fallen entirely on me. I barely saw Nathan move, except to breathe laboriously.
"I'm tired of this... How long do you think that old man's gonna last?"
One of the guards commented, his voice echoing down the dim corridor as he patrolled the cells.
"Whatever. Just do your job and stop complaining,"
replied the other, not even bothering to look.
"Hey! Bowl!"
the first guard shouted.
Nathan tried to get up, as he always did, to grab his meager ration. But this time, his arms failed, his legs trembled, and he barely managed to rise. In a desperate effort, he pushed the bowl across the stone floor, making it slide to the small hatch that opened with a grating sound. The guard snatched the bowl impatiently, but not before Nathan whispered a faint thanks, his voice barely audible:
"Thank you..."
Nathan raised his trembling hands to his face. They shook like leaves in the wind. Age had finally caught up to him. He sighed heavily, feeling the weight of life pressing down on him. Nathan must have been in his seventies, maybe even eighties.
In a normal world, he might have lived longer, perhaps much longer, given that he came from a strong lineage. His father, if not struck down by a rare heart disease, would have lived to 150. But Nathan wouldn't have the same luck. The deprivations of that cell—the scarce food, the filthy water, and most of all, the brutality of the guards who tortured him for fun—were eating him alive. He was aging faster every day.
The light in his eyes was starting to dim. His gaze wandered to the makeshift table in the corner of the cell. Beneath it, there was a small piece of stone that looked loose. But he wasn't focusing on the stone , he was thinking about what lay beneath it.
"If I asked... would he do it?"
Nathan murmured, lost in thought. His voice was full of uncertainty, as if even he didn't know the answer.
The brightness in his eyes, once intense and resolute, was fading. But as he reflected on his state, something stirred in his mind. He remembered the eyes of a young man. A boy whose hope had also been crushed by circumstances. The light in his eyes had vanished... but recently, it had returned, even if only faintly.
Nathan remained still for a moment, feeling his heart tighten in his chest. That young man, who once seemed as defeated as he did, now had a small light in his eyes. Maybe that was what Nathan needed. Not for himself, but for the boy.
"His flame still burns... I can't give up now,"
he whispered to himself, a faint smile forming on his cracked lips.
He turned his attention to the tunnel, now sealed with a stone. If he strained his ears, he could hear the sound of the boy breaking through the rocks.
The sound of a metal bar being struck repeatedly by a stone echoed again, and Nathan knew that, even if his hands trembled, even if his body failed, there was still something he could leave behind. Something stronger than age: hope.
Because he knew what that boy was, just as he knew what awaited him.
"You're going to suffer a lot, kid..."
Nathaniel muttered to himself in the dark room.
"Ha ha ha! Come on, boy, you should have more energy. Move those legs!"
Nathaniel teased, grinning as he circled around me with light steps, almost floating across the stone floor.
For someone who was exhausted a few hours ago, he seemed pretty energetic now... Was he faking it? Nah... that couldn't be it.
His hands gripped the wooden stick firmly, meant to resemble the shape of a short sword. He swung his arm lightly, keeping the improvised wooden weapon in front of him, his feet in position. The tip of the stick pointed at my chest, ready for a quick, unexpected strike. I struggled to keep my guard up, mimicking the stance he had taught me.
"Haa..."
I sighed, exhaustion starting to weigh down my legs.
"Come on, tell me, who do you want revenge on? The men who sold you to this place? The prison guards? Or Anor?"
Nathanael continued to prod, keeping his eyes locked on mine, searching for any sign of weakness. He always had a way of testing more than just my sword skills. I guess it's part of the training... irritating someone to provoke a bad strike and then counterattacking. It seemed unfair, but the one left standing in the end isn't always the strongest or most skilled; it's the cleverest who remains on top.
"What do you think?" I replied, keeping my gaze steady, even though the question made my blood boil inside.
"Haaa..." Nathanael breathed deeply, shaking his head with a theatrically disappointed expression. Without another word, he lunged suddenly, his wooden saber slicing towards me in a lateral strike.
I raised my saber to block, our wooden weapons clashing with a hollow thud. The impact traveled up my arm like a shockwave. He immediately pulled back, spinning with agility and aiming a quick thrust at my abdomen. I shifted my body to the right, trying to stay balanced, but I felt the wood brush against the side of my neck.
"Damn old man, attacking from behind? That's not fair!"
"Move those legs, boy!" he shouted, almost laughing, stepping back just enough for me to regain my footing.
It was a constant lesson: footwork was just as important as the precision of the strikes. "Fencing," even though it was done with makeshift wooden swords—if you could even call them that—required a fluidity in movement that I hadn't quite mastered yet. As he advanced again, I remembered the words he drilled into my head every time we trained.
"The initial stance is crucial."
I planted my feet firmly on the ground, slightly apart, knees bent, my weight centered. When Nathanael came at me with an overhead strike, I prepared my saber, angling it as he had taught me, to deflect the blow to the side. As I blocked, I stepped my right foot back, absorbing the impact and using the momentum to spin, attempting to land a lateral counterstrike with my wooden sword.
Nathanael, as if predicting my every move, easily stopped my blow, spinning quickly, using the weight of his body to deliver a horizontal strike that slammed into the back of my hand with force. The shock made my wooden sword fall to the ground.
"That was better, but still too slow," Nathanael commented, smiling, not even out of breath. "You need to be faster. Remember: the sword isn't just a weapon of strength, it's one of speed and precision. Use the tip to thrust, the cuts should be quick and sharp, but most importantly..." He paused, raising his saber to eye level. "...you must move. The swordsman lives in motion."
I grabbed the piece of wood from the ground, rubbing the spot where the hit still throbbed. He was right, of course.
Nathanael charged again, but this time, I was more prepared. The moment he struck, I sidestepped quickly, dodging the blow and trying to thrust into the opening he left. He spun his body with agility, blocking with his saber at an angle, and before I could react, his "sword" was already on its way to my head, landing with a funny sound.
"Oops..."
muttered the old man as I blacked out, still standing from the blow to the head, a small line of blood trickling down my face.
"He'll be fine... eventually."
Nathanael let out another disappointed sigh. It was clear he didn't like my answer, but what could I do? I had to at least be honest.
He rose from the ground and looked as if he was about to hit me with the stick again. So, I stood up from the chair and leaned against the wall.
"There's more to life than revenge. You should listen to this old man at least once in your life," Nathanael gave me a meaningful glance, as if hoping his words would finally break through.
"Of course I have something to live for. I have..." I started but faltered. The words seemed to catch in my throat. Maybe because they didn't exist, which made my expression turn complicated.
Nathanael noticed, and before I could continue, he said:
"You do? You don't have to tell me anything right now. But I hope, with all my heart, that you find a good purpose. Something you can truly dedicate yourself to."
He spoke with a calm and gentle tone, one that, oddly enough, I found myself envying.
I stayed silent, staring at the floor. The truth was, no matter how much I wanted to believe in something bigger, it felt like the void inside me could only be filled by anger and the desire for revenge. It sounded almost childish when I thought about it like that.
"So tell me, what purpose should someone like me have?" I finally broke the silence, my voice heavy with a mixture of desperation and curiosity.
Nathanael shook his head slowly, a soft smile on his lips.
"I don't know," he said, as if the answer were as simple as the wind surrounding us.
"What?" I asked, confused.
"I can't decide anyone's fate. Everyone has to find their own path, eventually," Nathanael sighed, his tone even softer now. "But when you feel lost, think of this phrase: 'What kind of man is a man who doesn't want to make the world a better place?'"
His words hung in the air for a moment. He glanced at me sideways, gauging my reaction.
"Think about it every time you're about to do something. Maybe it'll help one day," he added.
"It sounds absurd," I thought. The idea that someone like me could want to change the world seemed far-fetched. But that didn't answer my lingering questions.