[Mkguild] RR: Releasing the Past

[Rimme the Weasel]

Here's the next part of the Round Robin. Thanks for your patience!

---

It had now been four days since Jerrod had come to the Barnhardt chapel.
Every day was the same slow steady rhythm. At morning Jerrod and Bruin
would share breakfast. Then they would head to the forge to make the day's
portion of cement. At first, Jerrod only watched Bruin mix the cement, but
today, Jerrod was permitted to mix the day's batch himself, though Bruin
had to remind him of the particulars. Bruin would then pour in the next
batch of cement for tomorrow's section of floor. Bruin would then prepare
the mortar while Jerrod sorted the loose floor tiles for size, shape, and
color. Then, for the next few hours, Bruin would pour in a bit of mortar,
and Jerrod would place the tiles on yesterday's solidified portion. Each
day, another thousand tiles were laid, about three feet by ten feet. Then
Jerrod would sit with Bruin as he prayed the vespers, and then they would
have dinner before resting for tomorrow.

Jerrod and Bruin weren't the only workers here. Ramesh and Elizier, a
leopard morph and a fossa morph, were often out bricklaying the adjoining
cloister. Two child morphs, Migel and Sal, could be heard on the opposite
side of the chapel, hammering tiles into the chapel roof. The other workers
seemed weary of the changing porcupine they had heard rumors about, but
after a couple days, all six of them sit together for dinner. Malvin
sometimes visited as well, though Jerrod was given to understand that he
would have joined them for dinner more often were it not for his regular
priestly duties and his absent-minded studies.

The regular pattern helped Jerrod focus on something beside his changes.
Throughout the day, Jerrod ignored his padded hands, his claws, and his
muzzles. What he couldn't ignore was his teeth. Bruin brought him a
chewstick after the first day, when he complained about his teeth. Jerrod
had been repulsed, but by the day's end had chewed and eaten the whole
stick. Jerrod still found it hard to admit he was a porcupine. Bruin took
him to the mirror every evening, insisting that Jerrod not avert his eyes
for at least two minutes. It was hard, especially the day his nose and
muzzle grew in. Jerrod couldn't see the image as anything but a monster; he
still couldn't believe he was anything but a monster.

And yet... Jerrod also felt ashamed at thinking of his fellow morphs as
monsters. Bruin had been nothing but kind to him. Ramesh could tell many
yarns of Barnhardt, while Elizier knew several hymns and psalms by heart.
Jerrod couldn't ignore their ear-twitching and purring, the marks of
inhumanity. Yet it hardly made them monstrous to show amusement or
contentment. Even Jerrod's own stick-chewing brought him relief and
happiness.

Jerrod solved this dilemma by just not thinking about it.

It was really the quiet that most unsettled him. For the past year, Rodrick
had been a constant companion, and a good friend for two years before.
Often Jerrod found himself wondering what Rodrick would say about him.
Rarely was it anything positive. Usually he thought of Rodrick telling him
to escape while Bruin was distracted.

But there was nowhere he could even escape to. Not unless he became a
circus animal or lived in the wild, and he wasn't ready for either. To be
honest, there wasn't much left in the world that he did feel ready for.

Bruin knocked on the stone wall beside him. "Jerrod? You have visitors."

Jerrod flicked his head up. "Who---" He recognized the frog immediately.
The child he knew by association. "You!"

Franklin and Drewbert stared at him in amazement. Of course, they had been
told of Jerrod's changes, but there was a difference between knowing and
seeing. Memory of Jerrod's offhand insults of morphs was still strong, and
Drewbert had to hold his tongue to not comment on the irony.

Jerrod glanced between the two. "Well, what do you two want to take from me
now?"

Drewbert frowned and opened his mouth to object, but Franklin croaked his
throat. "We came to return your belongings to you. And to give confession."

Jerrod slowly got to his feet. He wore an apron that he delicately tied
around his quills, and a pair of shorts that stopped just below his tail,
held up by a heavy rope he wedged between his quills. Everything he wore
was decided by how they fit over his quills.

"What confession?"

Drewbert shot Franklin a look of concern, but Franklin nodded back. "You
are right. We should admit to our wrongs." Franklin looked back up. "We
knew you were cheating, that time at the Jolly Collie. We knew it was
wrong. But we... I wanted revenge for what you said when you entered town.
What you called us animal morphs. So... I cheated back, and I helped
Drewbert cheat through me."

Jerrod clicked his teeth together, yet another bad habit he'd picked up as
a porcupine. Franklin and Drewbert braced against the door, while Bruin
watched them all closely.

Jerrod finally nodded. "I knew you two were cheats."

"I am not!" Drewbert could hold his tongue no longer. "After what happened
to my father, I have sworn I would never live like that again!"

Jerrod turned away. "No, I'm... I'm sorry. Ulford told me your story. I
shouldn't have called you that."

Drewbert blinked. A few days ago, this man had sneered at them and
mistrusted them, and nearly attacked him personally with a knife. Drewbert
always believed in forgiveness, but even this was hard to believe.

It was too hard not to point out the obvious, though. "I see you've changed
since we last met."

Jerrod flinched, and whipped his head back around. "If that's all, you two
can go now."

"Aren't you curious how we cheated?" Franklin leaned in.

"Not really. What does it matter now?" Jerrod threw up his hands. "I
appreciate you two coming all this way to apologize, but I don't need your
help. I don't need anyone right now. I just need..." His eyes turned
towards Bruin. "I need to make amends. For what I did."

There was a long pause. Bruin patiently stared at Jerrod. Both knew what
Jerrod had to do.

Jerrod sighed and turned back around. "So. What did you want me to do for
you?"

Drewbert nodded to Franklin, who headed back outside. "As Franklin said, we
wanted to give back your stuff. We took it wrongfully from you, and you
should have it back."

"Or do with it as you desire," Franklin added as he led the pony into the
courtyard, from which hung Jerrod's sack of gold, armor, spear, and two
knives. One knife was his; the other was the dagger Jerrod took from
Nathan's belongings. Technically, since Nathan had mutinied, it was now
Gwayn's dagger, but it wasn't as if Gwayn carefully inventoried their
belongings.

Jerrod stepped closer. He fingered the shaft of his spear, the ropes tied
against his knife.

The voice of Rodrick was in his head. Throw the knife at the frog. Spear
the bear. Take the pony and flee.

No, that's what Rodrick would have done. Jerrod was tired of running from
murder.

"You know how I got this spear?" Jerrod said. "I was still on the run from
the soldiers, and I was too afraid to buy one from the smithy or armory. So
Rodrick got it for me. Whether he stole it or owned it, I'll never know.
But it was never mine to begin with."

Drewbert tilted his head. "And if he had stolen it, would you have returned
it?"

"Forgive me. I'm still relearning how to think clearly." He picked up the
knife that was his. "This knife, I did buy for myself. It's a useful tool.
But it is a weapon. I'm not if I'm allowed to have it while I'm here."

Bruin nodded. "Knives can have many uses, but there are better tools
available for most uses."

Jerrod picked up the pouch of gold. "I wish the same were true for this."
He opened the pouch and dumped the coins into his hand to count them.
"These should all go to my father in Bruckin. It's a small town about 20
miles west of Marigund. I have no idea how to get it to him, though."

"You want to send a parcel to around Marigund?" Franklin brought a webbed
finger to his chin. "I know someone who could help with that."

"Wait. Before you do, I want to write him a message. I want this all sent
anonymously when you send it. I don't want my family involved with any
enemies I made down there." He looked back at the pony. "The armor's also
mine, but it won't fit me now, and it won't help my family any. Sell it,
and give my family the money. And as for this..." he patted the remaining
dagger. "Give this to Misha Brightleaf. Tell him it's Nathan's, if he still
thinks him worthy of it."

"So... you're not keeping anything?"

"That's right," Jerrod sighed. "I lost my old life a while ago, and I've
been searching for a new one ever since. The best way is with a clean
break."

Bruin rumbled. "I want you to warn you that a clean break isn't always
possible. Those enemies of yours, for example. You are still responsible
for your past."

"I know," Jerrod said. "I hope I know." He looked at Bruin first, then the
frog and child. He swallowed. "The first big mistake I made was keeping
secrets from my family. Would you give me an hour to make amends for that?
I'll need some paper, a quill and ink, and sealing wax."

Bruin smiled, and looked to Franklin and Drewbert. "Would you care for some
lunch while you're here? We've almost finished off our plum marmalade."

----

The snow lashed at him like a thousand whips, buffeting his cloak and his
hole-torn boots, themselves laden with ice and sticking to the icy glacier
on which he fumbled. On his back he carried the last of his provisions. He
remembered he had a horse when he entered these mountains, but it was long
dead now from starvation. Rodrick had done his best to dry and cure the
meat the way his master did, but there was too much meat, and too much
blood, and not enough wood to smoke the meat, and too little experience to
guide him.

How long had he been crossing these mountains? And for what? In part, he
knew he was searching for an artifact his master had long sought here in
these mountains. But it would also not be a bad place to die. He'd lost his
home, his master, all sense of purpose. What use did the world have for
someone like him? What good was a thief who did nothing but take from
humanity, who had nothing to give back but a blade to the throat and a
chase in the night?

Rodrick knew the best course of action was to dig out a shelter and wait
for the storm to pass. It was pitch black here. One false step, and he'd
plunge to his death. Rodrick knew if he stopped, though, he might not have
the strength to start up again. Nor would he have the strength to build a
shelter, for that matter. Even if he could build one, this storm was far
stronger than he, and would likely bury him.

Perhaps it would be best to die here. Perhaps it would be best. Perhaps.

Rodrick kept walking, even as he lost all sensation in his lower legs. It
seemed as if it was only his imagination carrying him forward, and his will
to see this through to the end. Did the story have to end like this? Was
there not something ahead he could be fighting for?

Rodrick suddenly felt his foot get caught on some crack in the ice. He
tried to push his foot free, but the snow had already wedged itself into
the crack behind him. His fingers were too numb inside his gloves to prod
the boot free. He tried to draw his dagger, but it too had been sealed shut
in its sheathe. The sack on his back shifted on his shoulders, sending a
jolt of pain on his neck. It was the only thing Rodrick could feel, beyond
his growing despair.

No, not just despair. If it were only despair, then he would have no reason
not to sink into the snow, and let the cold ice soothe his hot blood. But
he couldn't let it. This ice was trying to kill him as surely as any guard
or soldier would do. This was fear. If he were to let go now, then
everything, everything, would have been pointless. Unmourned. Futile. Weak.

Rodrick summoned his willpower again, pushing aside his thoughts. He alone
would find a way to survive. On the advice of his master, he never sought
the aids of the gods, light or dark. Piety only led to slavery. Slavery was
another form of death. One needed to be one's own master, use one's own
resources, and depend on others only when they also depended on you.

Rodrick leaned the sack down on the snowy ground. The wind seemed to snap
even more harshly at his exposed back. He opened the sack. A rush of warmth
immediately escaped from within. So blissful was that sensation of warmth
that Rodrick considered climbing in and sleeping. But there was barely room
for his hand, much less his body. Besides, the warmth was temporary. The
more he exposed the sack's contents, the colder it would get.

Rodrick gently tugged a glove off one hand, and reached in. His clammy hand
prickled as it thawed, which made it all the more painful to rummage with.
It was near impossible to feel his target by texture or give alone. His
food reserves, his iron tools, his master's instruments, the old keepsakes
of his youth; all felt like vague uncertain shapes. Rodrick couldn't afford
to lose himself in this search. The cold was seeping into his foot by the
second. In a fit of desperation, he felt forward to the bag's edge and
scraped along out. The thing he sought would have been folded up,
logically, and pressed against the sides for insulation...

Rodrick pulled out an empty canvas bag, a rope cinched around its neck. It
reminded him of the sacks of potatoes sold at the Silvassa market. What he
wouldn't give for a warm baked potato right now...

The wind suddenly howled and inflated the bag, knocking it loose from his
grip. Rodrick reached for it, but it had already sailed silently away into
the darkness. The sack beside him tipped over, its creaking contents barely
noticed in the wind.

Rodrick seized the neck of the sack and closed it before anything could
fall out. The jerking movement popped his foot free of the boot and into
the snow. He yelped as if an icy dagger had stabbed his foot, but his
exposed hand clenched tightly the bag. Where was his glove? He reached
around for it, and felt only a thin trail in the snow, as if it had sailed
off along the snow.

Rodrick felt a sudden pang of anguish at him. It was only a glove, but his
master had taught always to watch his possessions, and leave nothing out of
sight. But how could he keep an eye in them in this total darkness? If only
he could summon a witchlight like his master could. If only his master had
taught him even a little magic.

No, he would not cry. He had to stay strong. That was his role.

It was only a few seconds, but his foot was dangerously exposed. Taking a
breath, he reached in again and pulled out a long piece of cloth. It was
the oiling rag he used to clean his master's sword. Rodrick remembered the
many nights he spent as his master watched him like a hawk, eying his
movements for any slips.

The wind nearly snatched the prize yet again, but Rodrick pressed it
against the sack, closing his glove around them both. For a brief moment,
he had actually seen the campfire and smelled his master's breath. This
blizzard was making him delirious. He needed to work quickly.

He set the rag down and put his foot on it, bringing immediate sensation
back to it. Thus secured, he reached back in and searched for a ribbon to
tie the rag around his foot. The items were getting clearer to make out,
even in total darkness. He found it -- one of the sashes that Jenny wore on
her dress. One of Rodrick's first memories was of tying up her dress.

Why was Rodrick carrying it, after all this time? For that matter, how long
had it been? Rodrick didn't know his birth year, though he estimated he'd
seen six summers by the time he'd been dressed up as a lord. It was around
eight summers when he'd met his master, and about twelve when he'd lost his
master.

Wait... Rodrick knew the value of horses. He knew how expensive they were
to procure and to upkeep. His master bought horses on occasion,
particularly for long overland journeys. At least once he and his master
had gone into these mountains, carrying a house in tow.

But... the last time Rodrick had taken a horse, he had been in Metamor.

The ground suddenly shifted beneath him. Rodrick fell backwards, while the
bag slipped another way. Completely forgetting about his foot or his
makeshift shoe, Rodrick lept after the bag, kicking and chasing the sound
of fabric sliding against ice. The wind threatened to knock him aside. He
snapped off his cloak and pushed it against the ground, forming a sled to
chase after the sack.

The cold lashed at him almost as much as his master's and Jenny's whips
combined, but he kept after it. The ground seemed to be on a slope, leading
further down into the darkness. But this was also to his advantage; the
snow did not impede his progress, and with a couple kicks, Rodrick easily
reached the sack.

No sooner did he grab it, once again by its neck, the ground suddenly
disappeared beneath them. The cloak sailed into inky blackness as Rodrick
fell back and grabbed, desperately, for the vanished ground. Snow and rocky
ice sliced open his exposed blistered fingers as he grasped the cliff's
surface. It took all his strength to stay upright when Rodrick finally
shoved his hand into a crack. His shoulder snapped. Rodrick's chest slammed
into the rock wall, but his gloved hand held firm to the sack, which
threatened to pull his other arm from his shoulder.

There was a brief solace from the winds that howled above him -- or perhaps
he was dazed from the rush of panic and his newfound predicament -- and
then the winds shifted, and howled against the sides of the cliff. The
thread-bare shirt Rodrick wore fluttered like a flag, sapping his last
reserves of strength. Rodrick could feel his fingers bleeding, slowly
weakening his numb grip. Struggle as he might, Rodrick couldn't lift either
of his arms. Death above was possible, but death below was certain. There
was no escape for him.

"Hey! Up here!"

Rodrick looked up. There was a woman standing on the ledge, wearing a heavy
fur coat that covered all but her face and hands. She seemed to glow with
some natural inner beauty... no, magic. It was the first bit of light that
Rodrick had seen in these mountains, and it made his eyes water with her
beauty.

"Are you alright? Take my hand! I can help you!"

Help. Rodrick stared at her again, searching for a motive. Her mouth was
free of any sneers, and her gray eyes, deeper than any pool of water, bore
no malice. But what was she doing in these mountains? Was she the cause of
this snowstorm? Had she laid this trap for him to take?

"I can do nothing for this storm," she said, as if reading his thoughts.
"But I can help you. Please. Let go of the bag and take my hand."

"L-let go?" Rodrick's voice was rough, and his tongue felt foreign to him,
almost like he'd forgotten what words were. It had been so long, and so
rare, that he'd had someone to talk to, to be vulnerable too...

The wind lashed at him again, and reminded him of his master's words. "Who
are you?" he demanded.

"Please. I can bring you somewhere safe and warm. I can give you your life
back. Just let go and reach for me."

"If..." Rodrick choked back some air, and shouted against the wind. "If you
have magic, then lift me up. Make a foothold for me so I can climb up.

She shook her head. "I cannot interfere that way. Only you can reach out
for me. Please, Rodrick."

Rodrick looked again at her, and saw a look of fear, quite unlike his own.
Whereas he feared losing his own life, hers was a fear of watching someone
else lose theirs. A look of genuine concern. No hatred, no disgust. Rodrick
had never seen such a face, at least not directed towards him. Always he
had been a disappointment his guardians, who expected the impossible from
him, always challenging him to be better.

Here was a simple thing she asked. And sometimes, as his master said,
survival was more important than pride. Yet his glove remained firmly on
the sack. How could he let it go? Everything he had was there. And what
would he be without it?

His bare hand slipped from the wet stone, and Rodrick watched as the woman,
sad and defeated, faded into the distance. The wind began to sing. Rodrick
held the sack to his head and closed his eyes as the icy rocks below
approached. For a moment, from inside the bag, Rodrick could hear Jenny
sing a lullaby.

----

----

----

Rodrick awoke. He could tell because it was light out. Whether it was
morning or evening, he couldn't tell right away. He listened. There was too
much noise for morning. It must have been evening then. But was it June
6th, or the 7th? Or even longer? How long was he out?

Rodrick quickly took stock of his surroundings. It was a solid room with
stone walls and a solid stone floor, but it wasn't his dungeon cell. He sat
in a cot with a blanket covering him. The cot, the blanket, and even the
room were bigger than he expected them to be.

His eyes widened as he pulled off the blanket. He was completely naked
underneath; even his body hair was gone. Furthermore, his legs and arms had
become thin and weak.

Rodrick fell back against the pillow. The curse. So that was what happened.
This must be the sickbay within the Keep. He had become a child morph.

Was that how the Keep had judged his inner heart? Not some proud fearsome
beast of legend, or even a tough brutish beast of burden, but a simple
ordinary child?

Well, Rodrick smirked, at least he wasn't a woman.

His mind then turned towards escape. As a child morph, he still had the
option to leave Metamor. It would have to be as a stowaway. Once outside,
he could pass as a freshly-minted teenage recruit. Though it would mean
he'd have to keep traveling between towns, never settling. Just as he'd
always done for years and years...

No. Bad. Want to go home. LET ME GO HOME!

The inner voice seemed to come from nowhere, and blasted his inner thoughts
like a tempest. Rodrick found himself shrinking suddenly from a child into
an infant. He fumbled for the blanket, and ended up tossing across the
room. For a moment, Rodrick feared that he was going to shrink and
disappear entirely.

He had to... he had to be strong... for his master...

"Rodrick? Can you hear me?"

He was still in the body of a two-year-old when the bear morph entered. The
bear was dressed as an orderly but lacked a sharp edge in his bearing. This
must have been one of the doctor's assistants, in whatever sickbay he was
in. Rodrick observed all of this from a distance; the baby was bawling and
weeping and curling up in the cot.

"I want... I want..." The toddler mumbled. The infant's instincts seemed to
consume his mind like a thick sludge, and while Rodrick himself was calm
and rational, all his body's movements and behaviors were controlled by the
infant. Annoying images of soft beds and plush toys were drifting through
his mind. The damn child wanted softness and safety! After all Rodrick had
been through, this child had the temerity to think selfishly!

"Shhh, shhh, it's okay," the bear said as it wrapped the blanket around him
and rocked him gently. "Lothes is here for you, little one." Little one!
Rodrick was stuck trying to think of a way to recover from this and regain
control over his body, but the body kept whimpering. How he wished he could
muffle this annoying child's mouth.

This wasn't part of the curse! Rodrick had heard stories of what it was
like for someone to re-enter their youth. There was the occasional story of
someone losing their memory, but usually they just turned into miniature
adults with a few childish mannerisms. Nowhere did they mention this being
a prisoner in their own mind.

Although, Rodrick had heard stories of people who suffered from cases where
their body had shut down, but their minds were still active. Usually there
was magic involved, siphoning off their soul's energy, or containing it in
an artificial prison. Now, the Curse was supposedly bound to someone's
soul, so it might have been possible that, with the right incantation, a
similar...

"There, there. Are you still there?"

"Shut up, you fat hairy twit," Rodrick said in annoyance, trying to recover
his train of thought.

"What?" Lothes stopped rocking him.

Rodrick blinked in shock. No longer was he looking in from a distance. He
was back in his body. The tears were still wet on his cheeks, but there was
no sadness, no blubbering on his lips. Dammit! Rodrick tried to think. What
was he supposed to do here? Cry some more? Maybe flail his arms? Dammit! Do
something!

"What did you say to me?" Lothes asked again, a bit of concern.

"N-nothing," Rodrick said.

Lothes nodded. "Interesting." He set Rodrick down and stood up. "Will you
wait here just one second?"

"No, no..." Rodrick said weakly. He tried to whimper, but a sharp voice hit
him like a tempest. Weakness! Idiot! How dare he whimper like a useless
fool!

The bear closed the door behind him. Rodrick cursed himself. How dare the
child chose that exact moment to go into hiding! If he could have kept up
the baby act just a bit longer, he could have been deemed innocent and been
released from prison, maybe even allowed to leave. Damn it all! Damn this
blasted prison of a body he was in!

Rodrick lay back on the bed, waiting for the child in his head to appear
again. But there was only silence.

As soon as Rodrick closed his eyes, the tears began to flow.
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