Phaedo Dougenis 1 - On Fear
Cameo: Ambrus Nike
"Form up!"
The desperation in Critias' voice lashed at them nearly as hard as the tumbling rain, his rough baritone breaking on the last word. Next to her, Phaedo felt someone fall, gasping wetly. She looked: she shouldn't have, an impact jarred its way up her shield arm, nearly making her stumble.
Simmias was dead.
"Form up!"
Phaedo gritted her teeth, stepped up to make up for the now missing man, her boots slick as they dug through the mud, and tried ramming her shield forward.
It slammed into the shield afore her, its blackened, mirror polish reflecting the golden glow that was a training cohort trying to pull itself together, but rather than the expected ring of metal hitting metal, the impact oozed: her shield was stuck. The shadowy Qiguai Realm soldier (or puppet, or beast, or for all she knew, it was a friggin' Heavenly Treasure, reacting to their presence) in front of her slashed with its gladius, and Phaedo parried desperately, nearly losing her nose as her opponent's weapon drew a line of fire across her cheek. She jerked urgently at the leather strap that connected her to her shield, before spitting out a curse and letting it go.
"Form–"
She missed the last word as she lashed out with her foot, kicking her own shield – and that of her enemy's up, flinging its guard away.
The Shadow Soldier had only a moment to bring up its blade to block, before her sword entered where its throat should have been. She gave it a vicious twist, yanking it out in a burst of purple-black gore and saw the fire that was its eyes wink out before its body vanished, armament clattering to the ground.
She didn't even have time to pick up her shield: another Shadow Warrior stepped up, taking its place, much in the same way she'd taken Simmias', jabbing at her with a short spear. She tried to step on it and break the haft, felt the stupidity of her move as the spear lashed out, snake-like, and thwacked her in the shin – and then she did stumble, and it was hot, frantic swordwork as she turned her stumble into a half-hopping, half-running rush, pushing and shoving, as she threw herself at the enemy, her shorter blade would give her the better of it the closer she got, but her training forgotten, she used it more like a club than a sword, beating at him with it.
"Form up!" yelled Critias, uselessly.
Shut up, she wanted to say, her gladius digging into the haft of the spear, her free hand punching, grabbing, pulling at anything that'd give her-
Then something outside of her awareness hit her in the temple, and she fell, her body hitting the ground in a sideways heap. She grunted, choking off a cry as fire and pressure bloomed in her back before, with a sickening sound, like meat leaving a skewer, the pressure left and the fire started turning to ice, her lifeblood ebbing its way out of her. The last she could recall, was the mud, cold on her cheek, and her sword, still clasped in her hand. She hadn't dropped it. It was important not to drop it. Good.
Good.
Good.
…
…
…
The sun was shining, hot and pitiless in the way only a desert sun could shine.
A hand, hard, callused, reached out.
Bruised, but not quite broken, Phaedo accepted the hand and allowed it to pull her, stumbling, to her feet. Beneath her, the sands of the training pit were thick with the blood and sweat of twenty-three teenagers trying their best to beat one weather-worn old-timer of a soldier. No one knew how old Drillmaster Nike was. He wasn't
old like the Grand Elder or even the Core Formation elders, but he was up there, years-wise, like, at least a hundred or something, and, like a mortal going white, his hair and beard showed spots of green.
He was a head taller than even the tallest of them, his frame thick with muscle.
And his face was... well, it was missing pieces. Lots of pieces. What wasn't missing was scarred. When they'd first seen him, their little group of misfit rejects had for the first time in a long time been utterly silent, unable to keep from staring. Then he'd beat them black and blue until they could focus on not being beat black and blue rather than on the particulars of his appearance.
Today, he seemed... tired. There wasn't a better word for it. Just… tired. Still, he gave them his time, which was more than what most of the Clan had managed.
"Now what," he asked, as he always asked, "did we learn here today?"
The bruised and bloodied teenagers stared sullenly at him. He stared back, with his one good eye, expectantly.
As drillmasters went, he was not, uh, the best. They'd gone through half a dozen at this point, so it wasn't hard to tell which were the ones that were experienced, and which were the ones that they had been foisted onto, their reputation for trouble making having landed them with worse and worse mentors.
However, what he lacked in teaching skills, he more than made up in personal prowess. The man was a
monster.
Finally, after an awkward minute, a hand went up.
"Yes?"
"We learned that we all suck?" Simmias said. That earned a round of surprised laughter from the other recruits, as well as a chuckle from the Drillmaster.
"Well, yes, but that's obvious," said Ambrus. "Anyone else?"
"That you're really, really strong?" said Euthyphro.
He considered that before shaking his head. "Mmm, no, though that's true too."
"That we need to train even harder!" said Critias solemnly.
"Yes, but that's always true. Stop trying to brownnose," Drillmaster Nike said, without missing a beat. Critias backed down, cheeks reddening in humiliation.
Phaedo took a deep breath and raised her hand.
"Yes?"
"We learned," she said in a strong, clear, and above all else, cool voice, "that formation-fighting sucks."
There was a round of surprised, nervous laughter, almost close to a titter, if you could ever describe soldiers as
tittering – but to their collective astonishment Drillmaster Nike nodded. Critias looked like he was going to have a stroke, poor guy, couldn't happen to a nicer formation leader.
"You're right. It does suck."
Paradoxically, it was his agreement that broke her cool. Words she'd meant for others tumbled forth from her lips, bitter and angry.
"Sir, if you know it's useless, then why do we do it? Shouldn't we just learn how to," Phaedo made a vague gesture, somehow encompassing the giant hoplite soldier that was so key to the foundational battle doctrine of the Clan, "do that? Why drill us with all the rest of this nonsense? If we don't have enough qi to manifest any given Formation, we'll be dead anyway. And, to be blunt, sir, we're all dead men walking. We need to be doing useful shit, not," she bit her tongue in frustration, "not this. This is stupid – it's not even how real soldiers fight."
She'd seen a demonstration match between two legionnaires once. It had been awe-inspiring not… this dirty, sweaty, hold-the-line nonsense, where you fought elbow to elbow with no room to maneuver, and no qi to speak of, like a mortal.
They were young, but they were soldiers still. And unlike these old-timers, time was a luxury they did not have.
Drillmaster Nike nodded wearily.
"Is this what you all believe? Speak plainly – there will be no punishment."
A scattered round of umm's and sir's and yesses echoed forth, save for Critias, looking at them all in naked mortification.
"We do this," Nike said, "because you are scared."
Phaedo bristled. "I'm n-"
"Don't," he said, holding up a hand, "lie to me – and more importantly, yourself. You are scared. You are, all of you, scared. It's not your fault: your previous drillmasters tried to prevent this from happening and failed. So now, you get me."
He took a deep breath.
"Know this: you are not alone. Five out of ten cohorts show the signs, an unbelievably high percentage. Your generation was born in fear – bathed in it, brought up in it, and are now drowning in it. It's all you know. It's why your Hoplite Formation remains so unsteady and it's why we are drilling what happens when it breaks. Because, with the way you are right now, make no mistake, recruits, it
will break and you will die. The Trials will be here, and they will be here soon, and none of you are ready. We can't risk putting you in a greater, more experienced group because your fear will poison the Dao Heart of their formation too."
Phaedo's hands made fists, nails digging into the palms of her hand.
She had thought… it didn't matter what she had thought. Her voice was leaden, hollow: "Is that all, sir?"
"Formation fighting – not the kind with big glowing qi projections, just normal, in the dirt formation fighting, where you're smashing army against army - is… difficult. Your sides are exposed, your motions are restricted, and the blow that will kill you might not be a blow you can block because the guy right next to you will foul you up if you move to block it. And that's why this is a useful exercise. Because your comrade will be right there next to you. They will guard your life, and you will guard theirs. Formation fighting isn't meant for duels. It is meant for war. In war, all you can do is your duty, all you can do is trust that the men and women beside you are doing theirs. There is both no glory in it, and all the glory in the world."
Nike stared at them and for some reason they all stood straighter.
"Recruits, there is no shame in fearing death. But there is shame letting those that you would call brother or sister die, in service of that fear. Get up. And keep getting up. It is the only way any of you will make it out alive."
He clapped his hands, breaking the spell his voice had cast.
"So, let's start again."
…
…
…
Phaedo woke with a start, hand still holding her gladius, the mud around her still churning with fighters moving back and forth, blood and fire spilling onto the ground.
Despite the rain, she felt parched. And maybe because of it, she felt cold.
"You don't ask for much, do you sir," she muttered.
Then, after taking a deep breath, she got back up.
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Author's Note: Repost, so no need for a reward. I already requested that the original be moved but it never was so I'm just going to post it again.
