No editing, we die like men. Mott stands, come get ya'll juice

Takes place 3 months after Streets of Drylliad

The truth was, he didn't want to continue being looked at with sorry eyes. Pity poor Mott, struck with a sword before his time. Pity poor Mott, can't quite move as fast as he used to.

"It's alright to slow down, Mott, don't strain yourself."

"Are you sure you should be holding a sword, Mott?"

"Here, let me help you carry that. Really, it's no trouble. Maybe you should sit down."

It was always Mott this and Mott that. Always 'how are you feeling?' and 'doesn't that hurt you?', always warnings against doing something he'd regret.

By the Saints, he wasn't even that old. Kerwyn had more freedom than Mott did.

Each time he was caught in the training arena, Mott was sent out, or at least sent away from the practice dummies. All he could do was watch as Roden and Jaron sparred. Watch as Roden began sparring with anyone he could until he beat them. Watch as Jaron was able to fight with his old injury.

And it wasn't fair.

The only time the arena was ever completely empty was during the earliest hours of the morning. Nobody in their right mind would be awake of their own free will, which meant Mott was free to hack at practice dummies until the sun rose and Roden came for his morning training session.

Summer had faded, leaving Drylliad trapped in an interlude between warmth and the coming cold. Mott could see his breath each time he exhaled. He wore a warm shirt and trousers, items that would be useless once the afternoon came.

A row of swords beckoned to him, left out by practicing soldiers from the previous evening. There was a series of humanoid targets lining the far end of the round arena.

Children used those. Little girls like Nila hacked away at the practice dummies with their silvery fencing swords.

Mott was reduced to using practice dummies.

He'd bitten back his pride for several weeks. After he, Tobias, Renlyn Karise, and lord Feall Cormeach had been attacked by a group of masked bandits, Mott had wanted to regain his ability to use a blade. The desire for painless mobility wasn't new, the fierce determination to achieve that goal was.

Selecting a sword, Mott made his way to the practice dummies.

Though he'd never regret what he did to get the ghost wound that still haunted him, he'd always wonder what would've happened if he'd just been a little bit faster.

Just a little bit better than the man who'd delivered the blow.

The past couldn't be changed, Mott knew that better than anyone, but everybody pondered about what would've happened if they'd just made a different choice.

If fate was just a little different.

Sometimes he wondered what would've happened if he hadn't been able to figure out that Jaron was the real prince. What would've happened if he'd helped Conner put Roden on the throne instead.

Definitely would've been a disaster.

Mott probably wouldn't have ever seen the light of day again.

He lifted the sword above his head, and brought it back down slowly. The pain in his side was tight and sharp.

Empty hand up; empty hand down. Sword hand up; sword hand down.

Trust in yourself not to split your skin in half.

After repeating the motion a countless amount of times, Mott held up his elbows, and twisted side to side. His spine popped in several places, and he smiled. Swing out the legs, rotate the arms, twist from side to side again. The stretching in his side never left, but it wasn't so bad.

Mott raised the sword above his head, and brought it down slowly. His routine was always the same. Always slow, careful not to rip something beyond repair.

But today was different. He was ready to swing his sword a little faster. He was ready to push past the stretching ache in his side.

He stepped away from the dummy, and held his sword in both hands. Envisioning one of the masked bandits from weeks and weeks ago, Mott swung at the dummy. The skin near his wound tightened again.

A sharp voice in the back of his head was convinced that he was going to tear himself into two pieces.

Not real, not real. He was made of sinew and muscle and bones and lungs, not of fabric. Please don't tear in half.

Again! Hit the dummy again!

Heaving the sword over his shoulder, Mott hacked at the cloth dummy's shoulder, exposing insides made of straw. Ever so slowly, he brought the sword across the dummy, slashing from left to right.

More straw burst from the dummy's split middle.

Something new was pulsing through his veins.

New, but oddly familiar.

It reminded him of when he wasn't stitched together. When he wasn't a patchwork person.

Ignoring the energy was wrong. Mott gave in, no longer caring if the pesky voice in the back of his head was right. If he tore himself in half, that was obviously how he was meant to leave this world.

With a grunt, Mott swung the sword up, burying the blade deep into the dummy's side. Downward blow, upward blow. Slash from left to right, a cutting swing at the neck.

Mott stepped back, and spun around himself as he charged the dummy.

It wouldn't be much longer until the dummy was no longer usable.

Straw was bursting from the ripped fabric. Bursting from the illusory wounds Mott caused. A small smile tugged at the edge of his lips. Weeks of practice and early rising was proving a little more useful.

He stepped back, inspecting where each of his blows had landed. The ghost wound in his side began to ache. He didn't have the energy to hide it from himself. Mott grabbed at his side with his free hand, but forced himself to remain on his feet.

Imogen's cat, Beanstalk Edelweiss, had a bad habit of shredding curtains when she was bored.

Mott now knew what the curtains were subjected to.

He'd do a little better at keeping Beanstalk Edelweiss from ripping the curtains.

"So you're the one shredding up the targets."

"I can't lie while the evidence is in front of both of us," Mott confessed. He turned to Roden, "You're early."

Roden waved his hand, a speckle of dried blood just below his nose, "Can't sleep."

"Because you knew somebody was abusing the practice dummies or something else entirely?"

A tiny frown flickered across Roden's face, but it vanished. "Both, I suppose. There's activity in the Vaults, I didn't realize how much our, ah, mutual challenger was doing more than we thought."

The name didn't need to be mentioned. Mott knew Roden was discussing the Faola, specifically the disgraced Mireldis Thay. She'd worn a mask, stolen from the nobility, attacked the king, and still managed to escape without showing her face.

Mott cleared his throat, "Doesn't Feall help you?"

"Not exactly," Roden shook his head. "He's been tasked with keeping the forests clear. I have, ah, help in a special way."

Feall Cormeach, a promising Bymarian lord, had become much more helpful than Mott had expected when he first arrived in Carthya.

Apparently even Feall's help didn't stop the cesspool buried below Drylliad, hidden in the dark tunnels known as the Vaults.

"What do you mean?" Mott asked.

He didn't mean to frown as he pawed through the names of various soldiers he and Roden often talked about. The most promising men had been sent to Isel upon the request of an Avenian lord, and dozens others were stationed in Libeth for quick mobilization.

There was always the chance that Mireldis came back.

Or that somebody was copying her.

"Doesn't matter. It looks like you'll be able to accompany me, though," Roden scratched the back of his neck, and then gestured to the bursting dummy.

Heat flooded Mott's face. Usually, he wasn't so rough with his exercises.

"Sorry about that, got carried away," he said.

Roden smirked, "I don't mind. There's a new move I've seen and I want to practice, are you up to the challenge?"

"Excuse me?"

"Do you want to spar? It wouldn't be much of a spar, more of a way to understand how to catch saber blades."

Mott blinked.

Was this a form of deception? Was he dreaming?

He'd gotten so used to being dismissed when trying to use a sword, he'd forgotten how to react when somebody asked him to spar.

"Have you got a saber?" Mott asked. He was nodding too fiercely, he knew he looked like a schoolgirl begging for a flower tiara. "I can do it, I promise."

The stretching in his side dulled, he could ignore it for now.

Roden returned with a saber and a longsword, "Thank you, Mott."

"I should be thanking you," said Mott. The saber was light in his hand. "Tell me what to do, and I'll try my best."

He'd be able to get past the tight stretching in his side.

He wouldn't have returned to the arena to practice if he wasn't ready to regain his agility.

And maybe, just maybe, he'd get back up to speed, and move past the dull ache that never really left him alone.