A Good Night's Sleep

The sun rose as it always did on Olympia, from the edge of the mountains and forests, combining its light with the morning breeze in the empty streets. It passed over the magnificent city walls of stone and sand, and the bronze gates, brushing past the heads of workers finishing their night shifts, before finally entering a perfectly ordinary window of Lokos, merging with the electric light that had been on all night.

Mors held a scraper, lifting a piece of clay before his eyes, meticulously refining its smooth surface.

In his palm, wrapped in dark cloth, the brown clay took the shape of a miniature sword blade, inscribed with ancient, naturally formed runes.

One end of the blade burned with fierce flames, from which writhed several pained skeletons. The skulls, already disproportionate to human scale, distorted along with the heatwaves, as if about to be driven away with the rising smoke.

He hadn't been so engrossed in carving for a long time.

Mors put down the scraper and picked up a different tool, removing a small amount of clay from a recessed area to enhance the shadows where the flames dimmed.

He searched his memory for hazy echoes, recalling those days – he still remembered the year, before he knew he would exist forever – when the sword wielder wore a crown of emerald leaves, animal pelts draped over his shoulders, his longsword blazing with fire. He recalled his endlessly radiant face and the sharp, distinct lines of light and shadow around him, bringing the fragmented memories, like scattered gold dust, back into reality.

The prototype for that flaming longsword was a gift Mors had personally forged. Even after tens of thousands of years had drifted by, he could still remember the sweat pouring from him before the furnace, his heart pounding against his chest, the tense feeling of desperately calculating the force and impact of each hammer blow.

Mors blew away some clay dust, closing his mouth again, only to find the corners of his lips turning upwards.

He stretched his neck, letting the clay sculpture float in the air for a moment, and turned to observe the nearby stone statue for comparison.

The clay sculpture was a draft for the steel blade, and the steel blade was one of the two components of the stone statue.

He had to ensure the finished blade would correctly fit into the statue's uncarved hand, held properly.

Then, someone knocked on his door. The knocks were heavy and short, a faster rhythm than usual, betraying the impatience of the person outside. Mors glanced out the window and realized it was morning.

He continued to let the clay sculpture float in the air, free from external forces and maintaining the proper humidity, and said to the door, "Good morning, Peturabo."

"Mors." The door was immediately pushed open. The well-oiled hinges were too smooth to mask the sound of the boy's hurried footsteps.

Peturabo tried to walk in a straight line to hide his unsteady gait.

Furthermore, although his robe's fabric had been forcefully straightened multiple times, it had only stretched the cotton threads, making them loose and unable to hide the garment's inherent wrinkles.

Not to mention, it was the same robe he wore yesterday.

"When can you teach me stone carving?" he asked Mors, his gaze fixed, his tone forceful but uneasy.

Mors gently set his tools aside and looked at Peturabo. "I only saw the sun for the first time today ten seconds ago. I thought you would at least leave me time for breakfast."

Peturabo immediately took a tightly wrapped loaf of bread from the cloth bag he was carrying, extended his arm, and practically shoved it under Mors's nose.

Mors let out a chuckle, took the paper-wrapped bread, and opened it. Peturabo, not to be outdone, continued to reach into his small cloth bag and, lowering his head, asked, "Do you want any fruit?"

Mors cast one last look at his stone carving. A thin piece of cloth floated over, gently covering it.

Then he pulled over a rattan chair and reclined comfortably, eating the bread that was perfectly preserved due to its packaging. He gestured with a shaking finger, indicating for Peturabo to stop trying to stuff more oil-proof paper bags at him.

Peturabo tossed another round paper-wrapped item aside, then began taking tools from Mors's room onto the table, one by one. Finally, a new, intact stone block appeared in the center of the table.

He frowned as he did these things, gritting his teeth, looking so serious as if he were about to devour the entire table.

But his hands were trembling.

"You have to teach me to refine stone carvings, Mors. I have a competition with Andos in a week." Peturabo braced himself on the table, trying to appear taller.

"Oh, I thought you had already learned from the stone carvers in Lokos."

"I did!" he suddenly raised his voice, then quickly regained his composure, his knuckles pressing white against the table. "But they aren't any better than Andos. Everyone knows Andos is a genius craftsman. People privately say he shouldn't be a prince, because a stone carving can live longer than a family."

"Am I not better than Andos?"

"Aren't you?!"

"Have you seen proof of my completed stone carvings?"

Peturabo opened his mouth, his eyes flicking towards the unfinished statue covered by soft cloth, then to the miniature clay model floating in the air. He was clearly stumped by the question.

He took a breath and said, "When I first met you, you had a finished stone statue."

Mors finished the bread, clapped his hands, and brushed the breadcrumbs off the black cloth. Before Peturabo could be overwhelmed by panic, he said, with no small amount of sarcasm, "It's back to raw material now. Guess why?"

"Because you're carving a new statue. You're pursuing perfection."

"Completely wrong. It's because the last statue's quality was by no means outstanding, not superior to the top works crafted by Lokos's best artisans."

"No, Mors, you're just better than them!" Peturabo exclaimed. "It's absolute; no one can deny it!"

Mors half-covered his mouth and yawned.

He wasn't particularly interested in when Peturabo started viewing him in such a mystical, towering light; nor was he curious about which nonexistent void Peturabo had banished his experience-based philosophy from yesterday.

"Alright, Peturabo." Mors planted his heels on the ground, making the rattan chair rock back and forth. "It seems you lack the confidence to defeat Andos through your own learning."

"I am your apprentice, Mors. My learning is learning from you."

Peturabo raised a hand, clenching it into a fist. The unconscious gripping motion was like trying to crush an egg that couldn't be crushed.

Mors stared at Peturabo until the boy displayed an unnatural irritation.

Peturabo did not accept failure.

Especially failure in competitions with mortals.

But he didn't believe he could win.

Mors spoke, adding a husky softness to his commanding tone.

"Find a chair, sit down, Peturabo."

Peturabo did as he was told.

"Now, close your eyes and imagine your body becoming heavy, your feet on the ground, feel the weight of the earth? Good, your body is relaxing, more and more relaxed. The chair supports your back, your legs, your body. You begin to breathe, breathe deeply, inhale, exhale, breathing in fresh air, and the gloom drifts away with your exhale..."

Peturabo's eyes snapped open, and he sprang up from the chair, "Mors! Are you trying to hypnotize me?"

He sounded almost wronged.

"Precisely. I believe that instead of nervously chasing me around asking questions and trying to get a standard, universally applicable solution for carving from me, you might as well lie down and sleep, to conserve your energy."

Mors said this, and then unceremoniously tapped Peturabo's nerves with psychic energy.

The boy fell to the ground and was soon snoring.

This child didn't have a habit of snoring unless he hadn't managed to close his eyes for more than ten seconds in two consecutive days.

Mors adjusted his sleeping position, straightening his awkward legs and arms, placing a three-folded rug beneath him, and throwing a white cloth over him for warmth.

Once done, he calmly continued to ponder his clay sword.