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The meditation chamber walls ripple with a projection of shifting colours, like waves on the ocean caused by a gentle breeze. It is silent in there, save for Osiris’ own breath.
He opens one eye a crack to look over and check that his mentor is still there. Felwinter sits nearby, cross-legged as Osiris is, optical lights a dim red glow. There is an uncanny stillness about him – humans fidget, they move without realising it, shifting weight, tensing and relaxing muscles, a thousand tiny unconscious adjustments to account for balance and discomfort and changes in pressure, nerves seeking simulation. Most exos do the same. He has seen Lady Ashraven stretch muscles that should not need to stretch, or move her weight from foot to foot while she thinks.
Felwinter does none of that. He is utterly controlled, utterly silent, utterly still except when he wishes to move. Osiris wonders what it would feel like to have such focus and–
“Osiris.”
Felwinter does not move, does not even look at him, or brighten his optics, but the rebuke is clear.
“Apologies,” Osiris murmurs and closes his eyes again to attempt to resume his meditation. He rests his hands loosely in his lap for lack of anything else to do with them and tries to think of… nothing.
How can he think of nothing? Surely that is a contradiction. If he is thinking, then he must be thinking about something. The idea of clearing his mind as some of the teachers here have said seems impossible when his thoughts are so prevalent and so fast-running.
They’d told him to focus on his breathing. And he does. He always begins with that, the slow inhale and exhale, the movement of his ribs, keeping each breath calm and even, except isn’t he breathing in more than he’s breathing out? Is he holding the breath for too long?
Could he hold his breath long enough to die because dying is an ephemeral impermanent thing? Or does his body have the same built-in mechanism for survival that will usually force someone to breathe, or pass out so it can handle such a thing autonomously?
He should ask Sagira if she knows more. He should experiment to see if he can find out for sure, although he would need more subjects to be sure the data was of any worth. What if it’s just him?
“Osiris.”
His attention snaps to Felwinter in an instant. His master is definitely looking at him now, optical lights that ruddy orange-red of a glowing ember.
“You are distracted.”
How does he know? Are exos able to sense bio-data and brainwaves from other people? Can he read minds?
“Your hands are expressive and they give you away,” Felwinter says, “as do your expressions when you are lost in thought.”
“You were watching me,” Osiris says, faintly accusing.
“Perhaps,” Felwinter agrees, tilting his head slightly. “It is valuable to me to recognise these signs in you.”
Osiris scowls, and ducks his head. He is not sure that he likes being known in such a way. In his time travelling from where Sagira had resurrected him, they have seen how dangerous it can be to be known. Warlords, scavengers, raiders – being predictable is a liability. Things are different here, yes, but how long will that last? He has already frustrated and earned the ire of many people here.
“I struggle to see the point of this,” he admits. “I should be studying.” There is so much to learn and every moment that he is not feels like time wasted. It had been easier when he had been alone, out in the wilds. A small fire and an empty night had made it easier to lose himself in focus. But since he had come here, to the Iron Temple, with all of its teachers and books and information… how can he be content to sit and think of nothing?
Felwinter regards him for a long moment. He does that a lot. Always a second longer than is entirely comfortable, as though he is being dissected, assessed, and turned into an algorithm.
It feels more honest at least, than feigned politeness and the way that people tend to talk about a topic, and act as though he is rude for speaking plainly.
“It is a way to focus your thoughts, to clear your mind of distractions. When we work with our light, we need focus in order to control it.”
“I can already control my Light,” Osiris objects. “It comes to me as easily as breathing.”
Some would call him arrogant for saying such a thing, but it is the truth. Felwinter at least seems to treat it as such.
“It does. I have seen it,” Felwinter agrees, “but you could be better.”
“I–” he begins, indignant.
Felwinter continues without giving him the chance to interrupt. “A fire burns because it is its nature, but it can be changed by feeding it fuel, or the change of air currents, or by being snuffed out. Would you not rather be the hand that guides it than the flame itself?”
A metaphor, but a clear one. Much of his skill is based on an instinctive understanding, an aptitude that he has been blessed with. But even someone with natural skill can be bettered by someone with less aptitude but more training, more practice.
“You have so much potential, Osiris,” Felwinter says, “I do not wish to see you waste it, or burn out.”
Osiris grits his teeth. The idea of wasting his potential is anathema to him. He is powerful and he is clever, and that comes with responsibilities to humanity, to the Light… He cannot fail. What would even be the point of him if he failed? A wasted life.
Finally he sighs, his shoulders slumping. “I do not wish for that either,” he says.
“Meditation is a tool that we use to guide our thoughts and to clear our minds of distractions and anxieties. By doing this, we can become familiar with the feeling, and later use it to help us guide our Light in the same way without being consumed by it.”
It makes sense is the frustrating thing. He knows this! He has had it explained to him, has read documents about it. And it still eludes him.
“I find that my thoughts run away with me more often than not,” he says, though it pains him to admit to being less than perfect at something. His mind will catch on a stray idea, and before he knows it, he is lost a thousand miles from his starting point. On occasion it is useful! He can follow a path of causality along winding roads and find a stroke of brilliance at the end. More often though, there is nothing at the end but an endless spiral of anxiety, a feedback loop of apocalypse, personal or universal.
“I had noticed,” Felwinter says, and there is a faint note of humour in his usually affectless voice that has Osiris giving him a look of surprise. Is that a smile? It takes the sting out of the words at least. “Does movement help?”
Osiris frowns as he considers it and then shakes his head. “On occasion, usually when I am training, there is a clarity. But otherwise my thoughts are liable to run away with me just as much.”
At times the movement could even make things worse. On the road he had always needed to pay attention to his surroundings and that is a difficult habit to break. And its worst, the movement seemed to drive his thoughts onwards, harder and faster, and he could never outrun them.
“But here, when there is stillness, you feel like you are wasting time,” Felwinter says.
“Yes,” Osiris says.
Felwinter falls silent. Osiris finds himself fidgeting after a few seconds – picking at a ragged nail, chewing at his lip, examining the stains left on his fingers from ink and soot. They are not interesting things. Not useful, not even enjoyable, and yet his mind fixates on them, and trying to wrench his thoughts away just seems to make them even more prominent.
Felwinter stands suddenly, a sharp movement with no warning. “I have an idea.”
“What?”
He is fixed with that intense gaze once more. Felwinter offers him a hand up, and after a moment he takes it, allowing his mentor to pull him to his feet. “Meditation is a tool. If a tool is not working, then it must be changed to suit the task.”
And then he is gone, walking away into the hallway quickly enough that Osiris has to jog to catch up with him.
“What do you mean?”
“You will see,” Felwinter replies, “have patience.”
“Patience,” Osiris mutters, the word sour on his tongue. Felwinter glances at him, and there… is that amusement again? It is enough to startle Osiris away from picking at that word that he hates.
They arrive at Felwinter’s study, and Osiris heads towards his usual armchair, but Felwinter instead heads towards the door that leads to his private chambers. He turns to beckon Osiris to follow him.
He hesitates, uncertain about this change in routine, but follows Felwinter anyway.
Beyond the door is another study, a private one, Osiris assumes, and he cannot help but stare around himself curiously. It is smaller than the room where Osiris usually works with his mentor, and there is just a desk instead of the comfortable sofa and chairs set out for meetings and students. There are more books here too, and scraps of technology that Osiris longs to examine. There is a map spread out on the desk, points marked in red. Felwinter steps over and rolls it up before Osiris can get too good a look.
“Wait here.”
Felwinter heads into what Osiris assumes is his bedroom or whatever other rooms he has. Some of the other students have joked about him having a torture chamber, or a space to dissect Ghosts and other Risen.
At least Osiris assumes that they were joking. Felwinter does have that Ghost in his helmet – the awful thing keeps twitching and he wonders if it’s still alive, still conscious.
Felwinter returns, carrying a heavy looking coil of rope in his arms. Osiris stares at it, frowning as he attempts to figure out why.
“Do you trust me, Osiris?” he asks. There is a solemnity to the question which makes Osiris take notice.
“Yes. Why?”
“I would like to tie you up.”
His eyes widen as he stares at Felwinter. He thinks about running, fight or flight instinct kicking in at the prospect. This place is supposed to be different. It’s supposed to be safe–
“Breathe, Osiris.”
Despite everything, Felwinter’s voice cuts through the momentary panic, and Osiris can draw his thoughts back in. This is the Iron Temple. Felwinter is not a Warlord. No-one here is. Even if they might once have been. And why would someone with ill-intent ask for permission? Why not knock him out as he entered the room?
He glances over towards the door which stands open still, a clean line of escape if he’s fast enough.
Felwinter makes a soft noise. It sounds like frustration. “My apologies,” he says, “I didn’t think my words through carefully enough. I have become too used to you understanding me as instinctually as you understand the Light.”
“Oh.” The word escapes Osiris, and there is a strange feeling running through him at that admission from his mentor, pride and embarrassment and a warm thread of pleasure. Felwinter is inscrutable often, but Osiris has always thought that they have a rapport – Felwinter is equally as blunt as he is, and is able to follow the meandering trains of Osiris’ thoughts, even when others think that he has made some leap of logic to arrive at a conclusion.
“Sometimes minds must be tricked into behaving as we wish,” Felwinter says. “If movement without a set purpose does not help your focus, and if staying still leaves you distracted because you feel as though you are wasting time, then perhaps the trick is to have no option but to remain still.”
No options… “Like being a prisoner,” he says thoughtfully, the idea already taking root. “If you are a prisoner, you cannot blame yourself for not studying because you have no choice.”
“Precisely,” Felwinter says. He offers one of those expressions that Osiris is starting to think of as a smile. “It is an unorthodox method, I grant you. But you have never seemed to care much about adhering to the orthodoxy.”
Osiris huffs a soft laugh. Felwinter is not wrong.
“It does make sense,” he admits. But it is still a vulnerability. The Iron Lords have been good to him, but he still sleeps with his door locked, and a gun close at hand. He isn’t even alone in that.
“It does not have to be a decision that you make immediately,” Felwinter says. “It is a suggestion and nothing more. Your refusal or acceptance will not change anything about your studying here, or between us.”
Reassuring. He does not want to leave this place, not yet, not when there is so much to learn. And when he can be promised at least a bed, a warm meal, and the chance to sleep without interruption, even if he does not always take the opportunity.
And if it works… if it helps him become better, hone his Light, reach his potential… does that not outweigh any risk?
“I would like to try, I think,” he says quietly.
Felwinter nods and holds out his hand towards Osiris, as he had in the meditation chamber. An offer, an invitation. “Then, do you trust me, Osiris?”
Does he? Felwinter had taken him as student when others had proven frustrating, and had made their own frustration with him clear. Felwinter has seen Sagira often enough to have opportunity to kill them both. He has seemed to value Osiris’ thoughts and opinions.
He has given Osiris no reason not to trust him. And what is the point of a desire to build a better world if he cannot trust anyone?
“Yes,” he says, “I do.”
He takes Felwinter’s hand, and the exo draws him in. For one dizzying moment he thinks he will be pulled against Felwinter’s chest, but Felwinter moves him to stand in the centre of the room. He gives Osiris an intent look. “You may stop me at any time, am I understood?”
It has the authority of an order. “Of course, Lord Felwinter.”
Whether that is something that Felwinter follows through on though is– No. No, Felwinter will not hurt him. He knows this.
Felwinter walks behind him, and Osiris cannot keep himself from tensing up. Then a large hand curls against the back of his neck, gives a gentle squeeze and…
His breath escapes him in a sharp exhale, thoughts going blank for one moment. It isn’t fear. It’s… he doesn’t know. Some other feeling. Relief? He has never been good at untangling his feelings.
“Bring your arms to the small of your back,” Felwinter orders, and the way he says it makes something in his brain hum pleasantly as he obeys.
Felwinter positions his arms so they’re bent across his back and resting against each other. There is a moment when he moves and then there is the feeling of quick fingers and rope being wrapped around his wrists.
“It’s softer than I expected,” he says. He’d expected it to be rough, to scratch at his skin, but this feels almost silken.
“A coarse rope seems as though it would be more of a distraction,” Felwinter says, with another of those audible smiles.
His wrists are secured, and Osiris tugs a little at the rope. It’s secure; he can feel the knot pull but remain firm. “What now?”
“I am not yet finished,” Felwinter replies. “Patience, my student.”
Osiris lets out a slow breath of frustration. Patience, always patience. Ah, but is that not the point of this exercise? Trick his mind into a situation where all he can do is have patience?
The rope is wound around his arms, binding them together. It is tight, yes, but it is a pressure that is somehow reassuring, rather than painful or threatening. He cannot even really work against the ropes – with no leverage, he is helpless.
“How does that feel?” Felwinter asks.
“Strange,” Osiris admits, trying to tease out the threads of what he is feeling. “Not entirely comfortable, but not bad, just… different. Like I’ve been practising a new stance when we’re working on swordsmanship.” The ache of muscles unused to holding a position.
“Good.”
Felwinter’s hand against the back of his neck again, squeezing gently and then pushing him down with a firmness that brooks no objection. The surprise of it, the feeling of that moment of blankness, has him moving with the push, sinking down to his knees on the rug. He hears Felwinter kneel behind him, but feels him more intensely even though he is no longer touching him.
“Settle yourself so you are balanced well,” Felwinter says. “You should be as comfortable as possible.”
Osiris shifts until he feels comfortable, settled so that he won’t feel off-balance, a position he can hold for a while. When he’s done and had a few moments to adjust, Felwinter begins his work again.
He does not begin, as Osiris had expected, with his ankles. Instead he moves to kneel in front of him, and works the rope around his thighs, then binds them to his lower legs. Osiris watches him as he works, the focus, the delicate precision of his fingers as he ties the knots and adjusts Osiris’ position to make things easier.
There is something oddly soothing about it, Osiris thinks, the slow, careful work, the way Felwinter touches him, brief but not impersonal. There is care in each brush of his fingers, and Osiris finds himself relaxing. There is, after all, nothing more that he can do.
Felwinter touches his cheek gently, and Osiris startles to attention. Had he drifted?
“How do you feel?” Felwinter asks once more.
“Fine,” Osiris replies, “good I think. It feels…” Good is such an inadequate word. “It feels relaxing? That must sound strange.”
“Not at all,” Felwinter replies, and he sounds warmer than Osiris has ever heard him. “Shall we try meditating once more?”
Of course. That is what this is for. Osiris nods.
Felwinter settles in front of him, sitting cross-legged as though they are back in the meditation chamber. His optics dim and Osiris closes his eyes.
He can feel the tug of rope on his arms, the press of it around his legs, holding him firmly. It presses fabric against skin and he can feel the texture of his clothing that way, the fibres of his shirt and loose trousers, the way it’s bunched up a little. There is still that odd ache too – not painful, not really, but still present.
Normally these sorts of sensations would have him squirming, moving to find a better position. But now? Now he cannot do anything about it even if he tries.
He lets out a soft sigh, feeling almost… content with that realisation.
But the real test is ahead. His thoughts are far more flighty than his body.
He focuses on his breath, as he has been taught. He begins by counting each breath in and out until the rhythm takes over, a steady in-out, in-out, in-out, the movement of his chest…
Funny how he always takes breathing for granted. He remembers dying once, choking on his own blood, lungs deflating and–
No. This is not the time.
Back to his breathing.
In-out, in-out… He can be nowhere else. He can do nothing else. He is present in his body, in this room, and that is all that there is. The thought is freeing.
He continues focusing on his breath until it becomes background sensation. Deeper feelings then, the way his body shifts, the tense and flex of muscle and sinew, minute adjustments to keep him upright. Then even that is white noise and he is drifting.
“Good.” Felwinter’s voice is gently, soft enough that he cannot be sure if he is even hearing it. “I want you to focus on Solar Light. Don’t call it to you, just focus on it. The feeling of its warmth and light, the flicker of the flame. Both the candle and the star, the hearth and the wildfire.”
Osiris takes another breath, and releases it slowly. It would be the work of a split-second to call Light to his hands, but to merely consider it… Solar Light is warmth that suffuses him, lending every cell energy and healing. It is the relentless beat of the sun in the desert where Sagira had found him, and the distant rays when the clouds part over Felwinter Peak and he can see for miles. A campfire to ward away the darkness, and the blade in his hand raining destruction onto his enemies, those who would harm his people.
A point in the darkness to guide him.
“Now think about how it feels to wield Solar Light. How it would feel to form your Dawnblade, but instead of forming it, draw it into yourself.”
Another exhale. He remembers how it feels to wield it. His hand tight around the hilt of a sword forged from his own will. How the flames lap at his hand but never burn him, their scorch saved for their enemies. Sometimes it tickles, at other times it feels like a caress, as though the Light and the flame love him.
He imagines that blade dissolving, the Light seeping into his fingers, up into his wrist his arm, flowing with his heartbeat, a steady pulse. It’s warm as it runs through him, a gentle glow that eases tiredness and aching muscles. He is the Light and the Light is him and–
“Osiris, look.”
He frowns at the intrusion of a firmer voice, nose wrinkling as he shrugs off layers of… of nothing, and claws back to himself. He squints towards Felwinter through the brightness of the room and–
That glow, soft gold radiance. That is not Felwinter.
“I…”
“I think we can deem this trial successful,” Felwinter says.
He moves quickly to release Osiris’ hands, the ropes falling away. Osiris quickly raises one in front of him, admiring the way the Light seeps through his skin, gilding it. Radiance… he has bathed himself in Radiance before, but never with such ease, and when he has, it has felt as though it could burn him to ashes. It has been a tool of panic, of necessity. Not this gentle warmth.
“You have done well,” Felwinter says. And Osiris thinks he can sense something else in his voice, something that is proud, perhaps even fond. He wants to hear that tone more.
“It worked,” he says, and then gives a bright, startled laugh. He had not expected it to actually work! He had not really known what to expect if he is honest with himself. But this…
“It is one step of many,” Felwinter says, “but a good step nonetheless. Let me…” He moves again to begin untying Osiris’ legs. Osiris tries to stand up immediately, but Felwinter grips his shoulder tightly and makes him move more slowly, something that he is grateful for when he wobbles, the blood rushing back now that he is moving.
“Take a moment to stretch,” Felwinter says. “How are you feeling?”
“Incredible,” Osiris says quickly. Even with the radiance fading now, he feels energised, drunk with success, even such a small one as this. He turns to Felwinter, eager. “Can we try again?”
“Not immediately,” Felwinter replies, “but yes, if you find it of value.”
“I do. I… it is certainly unorthodox but if it works…” When has he ever cared about orthodoxy?
“I agree,” Felwinter says. “I am already considered… something of a dark horse amongst the Iron Lords. I may as well live up to the moniker.”
It is as relaxed as Osiris has ever heard him, and he cannot help but smile. “Where did you learn all… this?”
The ropes, the knots, the idea of this in the first place? Osiris would never have considered it.
“I have studied widely,” Felwinter says. “Sometimes answers come from… surprising sources.”
He wants to ask more, but before he can, Felwinter touches his arm. “You should come and sit for a while. I have heard that food and drink is a good idea after such an experience.”
“I’m not hungry.” He wants to explore this more. He wants to practise, to study.
“When did you last eat? I did not see you in the hall this morning.”
“I was reading,” Osiris replies. “I don’t enjoy being around so many other people.” The noise is distracting, the closeness unsettling.
Felwinter gives him one of those inscrutable looks again. “Then it would be wise to eat now. You have expended a significant amount of energy.”
His tone brooks no argument, and Osiris nods his acquiescence. “Yes, Lord Felwinter.”
Felwinter rests a hand against the small of his back and begins to guide him back towards the study. The touch sends a spark through him, makes him shiver. He thinks… he thinks it is something he could come to appreciate.
He settles in his usual armchair while Felwinter makes tea. Beneath the sleeve of his shirt, the marks of the rope are still present on his skin. He rubs his thumb against one of the marks thoughtfully, remembering the way it had felt to be tied, to trust Felwinter in such a way. The way it had, strangely, given his thoughts a freedom that he is unused to. A contradiction perhaps, to find a freedom in being restrained, but… he has been called contrary more than once. Why change the habit?
“Drink,” Felwinter says, offering him a cup of fragrant tea.
“Thank you,” Osiris replies. He takes the cup and its warmth seeps into him, like radiant light.