A Gracious Gift

As the harsh grip of winter gradually loosened, Amukelo found himself adjusting to the rhythms of life in the wild with Syltar. The once-endless stretches of snow melted away, revealing the budding signs of spring and a renewed abundance of wildlife. Amukelo's skills in hunting and combat had notably improved; he was no longer the clumsy novice swinging at shadows, but a more calculated and observant pupil. Syltar's training sessions, which had once seemed like brutal tests of endurance, began to show their purpose, honing Amukelo's instincts and reflexes to a finer edge.

During their sparring, Amukelo noticed a subtle shift in their dynamic. Syltar, who had effortlessly dodged every one of Amukelo's earlier attacks, now occasionally had to redirect an assault to avoid a hit. This change, though minor, was a significant indicator of Amukelo's progress. Each redirected attack was a small victory, a sign that he was closing the gap between his abilities and Syltar's expertise.

When the landscape fully donned its spring colors, Amukelo found himself adept at navigating the woods, no longer the famished hunter but a capable woodsman. His days of going without food became rare occurrences, as the forest now teemed with life, offering both sustenance and training opportunities.

It was during one of these fruitful spring days, as Amukelo was engaged in a particularly intense training session with Syltar, that he noticed Eagor arriving at the edge of the clearing. Recognizing the need for privacy in their training, Eagor held back, waiting patiently for the session to conclude. Syltar, perceiving the visitor, eventually called an early end to the training, nodding subtly to Amukelo to acknowledge his friend.

Amukelo, wiping the sweat from his brow and catching his breath, walked over to join Eagor, who greeted him with a mixture of concern and relief. "We have been worrying about you," Eagor began, his voice laden with the weight of the unspoken fears that had circulated among the villagers. "Some were thinking that you might commit suicide. You should at least tell me."

The words struck Amukelo with a pang of guilt. His departure had been abrupt, a desperate escape from his grief, leaving his friends and fellow villagers in a state of anxious speculation. "I'm sorry," Amukelo replied, his voice low. "It all happened so fast, my decision to visit Syltar was spontaneous and desperate."

Eagor, understanding the tumultuous sea of emotions his friend had been navigating, sighed, his expression softening. "I'm just glad that you're okay," he said, sincerity resonating in his tone. "But if you ever decide to leave the village, please at least tell me."

Amukelo nodded, the gravity of Eagor's words settling on him. "I will. I promise," he assured a sincere commitment to maintain the bonds he still held dear within the village. Then with a knowing smile, Eagor left. 

. . .

Two years later as the cold winds of Amukelo's last winter under Syltar's tutelage howled through the dense forest surrounding the hut, an anticipatory silence filled the clearing where they stood. It was the day of their final spar, marking the culmination of two years of intense, transformative training. The morning was crisp, the ground firm beneath their feet, and the air sharp with the scent of pine and impending snow.

Amukelo squared off against Syltar, his stance more assured and his eyes sharply focused. Gone was the hesitant and untrained youth who had first wielded a wooden sword in these woods. In his place stood a confident warrior, his movements refined and deliberate. Syltar, recognizing the moment's significance, also wielded a wooden sword, his usual relaxed demeanor accompanied by an undercurrent of seriousness as he prepared to test his pupil one last time.

The match began with Amukelo attacking, his blade slicing through the air with precision. Syltar, nimble as ever, attempted to sidestep the blow, but Amukelo, anticipating the move, changed the swing's direction at the last second. This forced Syltar to parry rather than evade, showcasing Amukelo's improved ability to read and react to his opponent's tactics.

Syltar quickly riposted, his counterattack swift and aimed to catch Amukelo off balance. However, Amukelo was ready, blocking the strike with his own sword, his arms steady and his breathing controlled. He pressed forward, his attacks becoming a series of calculated strikes, each one pushing Syltar to respond in kind.

Just as Amukelo began to gain momentum, Syltar dashed forward unexpectedly, catching Amukelo slightly off guard. However, years of training had honed Amukelo's reflexes, and he managed to redirect the assault, swinging his sword toward Syltar in a fluid motion. But Syltar used the handgrip of his sword to deliver a precise hit to Amukelo's wrist, causing a sharp pain that made Amukelo lose his grip on the sword. With another skillful maneuver, Syltar disarmed him completely, stopping his own blade just inches from Amukelo's throat.

"Wow, master, I can't believe how big a gap is still between us," Amukelo gasped, both in admiration and slight disbelief at the speed and skill Syltar still possessed.

"Although you lost, you greatly surpassed my expectations. At some point, I really had to focus," Syltar admitted, sheathing his wooden sword. He looked at Amukelo with a mix of pride and satisfaction.

Amukelo, catching his breath, asked hopefully, "So why don't I stay longer so you can teach me more?"

Syltar shook his head slightly, his eyes reflecting a wisdom born of centuries. "I have already taught you everything you need. The rest is just repetition and experience. And what did I say two years ago?"

"That life is the best teacher," Amukelo replied, recalling the words that had set him on this rigorous path.

"Right! If I continue to teach you, you will be good at countering my style, not real-life battles. You are ready," Syltar affirmed, his smile broadening. Then, reaching behind him, he brought forth an object wrapped in cloth. "Now there is one last thing I want to give you."

Amukelo's eyes widened in surprise as Syltar unwrapped the cloth to reveal the majestic elven sword—the legendary blade from the stories of his childhood. "This is the legendary sword from the story I told you eight years ago."

Amukelo was awestruck, his hands hesitating to touch the hilt. "You... I can't take this. It must mean a lot to you."

Syltar placed the sword into Amukelo's hands. "I took it only to prevent it from evil hands, and I can see that yours are purer than any other."

Overwhelmed with gratitude and a deep sense of responsibility, Amukelo took the sword, his voice trembling slightly. "I... Thank you, master."

With a final nod and a proud smile, Syltar bade him farewell. Amukelo, now armed not only with the skills but also with the legendary sword, stepped away from the hut, his heart heavy yet hopeful. He paused just before entering the woods, taking a moment to look back at Syltar's retreating figure. The path ahead was his own now, a journey of adventure and fulfillment of promises made to both his mother and his mentor.

As he turned to leave, his thoughts drifted to Eagor, the friend he needed to visit before he could truly set out on his adventures. With the weight of the elven sword in his hand and a resolve steeled by years of training, Amukelo stepped into the future, ready to face whatever challenges it might hold.