The Stomping of Wy

Wy looked at the stone building for the first time, blearily. There’d been little sleep to be had at the beginning of the week, as the parents took up their weekly arms at war. Mother's accusations, and father's deflections. Crashes and screaming. The weekly prayer to the Gods in the household. The two had finally agreed that home, specifically theirs, was not the best place for a child’s schooling.

Wy shook his head, trying to clear his mind.

Why does this keep me up? I’m thirteen now. That’s more than enough time to get accustomed.

The soldier in charge of his protection leaned down and patted him on the back. Wy looked at him and plastered on a wide smile.

He stared at Wy, seemingly into his soul. Wy found it uncomfortable but didn’t relent; he stared back into those emerald eyes, furiously. The soldier nodded, after a while.

“Good,” he said. “Keep that fire fanned, Your Excellence.”

Wy turned around and faced the gates of the school. He couldn’t help but feel his heart sink with every step he took towards those gargantuan jaws.

“Another step, another moment,” he muttered to himself and walked faster, willing the experience to be over. Ready to face his destiny.

His biggest fear turned out not to be the stompings, as the palace ragamuffins liked to put it, but rather the monotony of school life.

Day after day. In and out. Lectures upon lectures.

He found himself wishing for a stomping, like a heart-torn lover might have wished upon a shooting star.

------

He was walking to the entrance of the school at the end of another long and tedious day when the first instance of trouble entered his life. His heart was weary with aimless purpose, his mind full of hearted fantasies. The contradiction boiled to a tipping point, and the cry was enough to blow the lid off.

“Please, please!” A voice sounded, in the courtyard where bad things were purported to happen, if you lingered long enough.

Have I lingered long enough? Wy thought, to himself.

Instead of moving left and through the entrance doors, he took the right down the steps leading into the gladiatorial arena known as the courtyard. He walked into it like a hare might into a den of vipers.

Three giants assailed an impling. By Ayrin, what an impling it was! Too small to defend itself, and not knowledgeable enough to keep out of trouble. How had the Gods allowed a creature like this to survive for so long?

One of the brutes punched at it, and it dodged nimbly to one side. Another kicked at it, and it maneuvered deftly to the other, crying out in mock pain as it ran into the wall, screaming and putting on a magnificent act.

Wy couldn’t help but find himself smiling at the craft of this creature. It was the most entertainment he’d had in his whole time in this prison. A hand rested gently on his shoulder. He uttered a high-pitched shriek, as he turned around.

Tibbula, he was called. At least that’s what Wy thought. The soldier never corrected him, and so Tibbula he remained.

“Your Excellence,” he said, reaching his hand out. “This is the wrong way.”

“Aren’t you going to help the impling?” Wy asked.

Tibbula looked past him and took in the scene.

“That one…” he said, and his brows furrowed for an instant before he looked away. Something in Wy’s heart made him think less of Tibbula for it. “She is marked.”

“Children are marked?” Wy asked.

Tibbula looked at him, an odd sign of emotion in his eyes.

“Come,” he said, overcoming the feeling and grabbing him by the arm. “Best not to involve yourself in this. It’s not your concern.”

-----

That night, Wy slept even more fitfully, even though it was the middle of the week; father was out whoring around, and mother was still building up her strength for the weekly confrontation, silently weeping into her pillow. He was alone. And so, he turned to his thoughts.

Wy thought of going to mother and trying to comfort her. But every time she looked at him, he could see the hate. The fury. He knew it wasn’t directed at him, but he also knew he reminded her of it. And he liked his sleep more than he liked comforting that rage. So, he stayed put. Stuck in limbo. Stuck in uncertainty. Waiting on a stomping, as the stompings went on around him. Stompingless. Purposeless. Flightless, and aimless.

“When!” he shouted at the ceiling, haplessly. Back in a happier time before either he’d been born or could remember, his parents had commissioned an artist to paint the ceiling with a knight in steadfast resolve fighting a six-headed lizard-like monster.

Wy’s eyes teared up looking at the faded painting on the ceiling. On his dreams. Before long he was sobbing silently until he breathed in a tear by inevitable mistake, and then he was coughing violently into his pillow. Before long, the coughs turned back into sobs, muffled by the rich texture of the pillow.

He woke the next morning with the expected gentle hand on the shoulder. He didn’t even bother to complain. He silently got up and got ready to be escorted to prison. Another day, another step, into an uncertainty that Wy could predict with uncanny precision.

“Tibbula,” he said, whimpering, as he walked Wy towards the entrance. “Do you hate me? For putting you through all this?”

The soldier stopped walking, a welcome reprieve on the way to those gates.

“Of course not, Your Excellence.”

“You don’t feel it, too?” Wy asked, still staring at the gates.

“Feel what?”

“Never mind, then,” he said. His hands trembled slightly.

“Let’s get you to classes, sir,” Tibbula said, his voice sounding far off. Wy sighed and started the march onward.

-----

That day was exceptionally boring. The history teacher prattled on and on about the Gods. Wy wished she would talk about the wars. Ayrin, especially. The noble maiden, wreathed in plate, charging for justice and honor. Wy found himself daydreaming, quickly enough.

“Prince Alina!” the teacher said, loudly.

Wy was staring at the wall, planning out a scenario where he charged into a host twice –no, thrice- the size of his group, to come to Ayrin’s aid. It was glorious. The girl next to him nudged him aggressively, letting him know it was his turn at a potential stomping. He snapped back into the classroom.

Linotta. She was bruised, as usual. The arm, this time. How he hated being nudged by her. But he daydreamed often enough, and she seemed to have taken it upon herself as a sacred duty to rudely nudge him into reality. How he disliked that rough touch. He had come to associate it, and subsequently her, with the abrupt endings of his fondest daydreams. Their relationship, as a result, was rocky.

He stood up and stared at the teacher. She shrunk at his glare a little.

That’s right. Nothing I can say can get me into any real trouble. If she does call, would father or mother even show?

“When did Ayrin defeat the evil tyrant Tahan?” she asked him. It was an easy question. Grades below their level. Wy decided to take matters into his own hands.

“Who is Ayrin?” he asked, pretending at innocence.

There was dead silence in the classroom.

“You know this!” the teacher beseeched, desperately.

“I know of Aymin!” he said, cheekily. “And she never fought this evil tyrant! She joined him!”

Stunned silence, now.

Wy bounded to the front of the class, feeling his patience finally breaking. The madness felt like freefall. But it felt like something different, so Wy reveled in it.

“And she joined him at the hip, like so!” he shrieked, with a manic joy in his voice. Linotta was giggling silently, trying to hide behind her book but Wy caught it and, having seen just a little bit of encouragement, continued with the charade.

“And together, they waged a bloody and devastating war upon the entire world!” he said, growling at the front row, making them leap back in their chairs.

I like this. This feels fun!

“And then the other cities took up arms against them!” Wy shouted out. He held his breath, looking around at the enraptured faces staring at him.

“They were led by a fierce and brave knight, known only as Wy, who—”

Almost at once, the entire classroom erupted into protest and, to his dismay, Wy found himself overcome by the democracy of loud, high-pitched voices. He strained his voice against theirs, against reality, against incredulity, and found himself defeated, utterly and entirely.

“Traitorous Wy! Traitorous Wy! Traitorous Wy!” they shouted at him.

Shoulders sagging, he returned to his seat and plopped down into the dreaded seat of obscurity. Into his personal purgatory.

The teacher was glaring at him.

“Your parents shall hear of this, Your Excellence!” she said, as politely as was possible.

Sure. If they can keep their hands off each other’s throats. Wy thought darkly.

As a result of the anger and embarrassment, or perhaps it was just the general monotony of life he’d been exiled back to, Wy felt his eyes tearing up. The girl next to him, that harpy Linotta, reached out and patted him on the back. He balked at her touch but decided to look over, teary-eyed as he was.

“It wasn’t the best,” she said, smiling softly at him. “But it sounded interesting. Keep at it. Maybe one day, you’ll come up with something worth listening to.”

Wy slapped her hand away, rudely. She glared and shot him a rude gesture. The teacher picked up on it immediately.

“Fulke!” she screeched. “Get up! Punishment! Wicked girl!”

Linotta looked at the teacher helplessly and then back at Wy, a murderous rage in her eyes. Wy shrunk back from her as she got up and slowly shuffled to the front of the classroom, then outside.

Wy stared down at the book on his desk for the rest of the class, not saying a word. Thinking, thinking, thinking. Not about lessons. Not about anything.

And certainly not about Linotta.

-----

Wy shuffled back towards the entrance, listlessly. His body may not have taken a stomping that day, but his heart sure had. He wasn’t as sold on stompings as he’d been, anymore.

He moved past the junction and heard a familiar cry. Despite every muscle urging him to go back home, he investigated the courtyard. The same impling was dodging around. There were six brutes now, batting at it.

The six headed lizard!

Wy made to move to the entrance where Tibbula awaited the sight of him. His legs wouldn’t budge.

This is it. This is your calling; reach out now or forever let go.

Wy’s eyes filled up with tears.

They don’t want a hero called Wy. They hated me!

But Wy remained still, heart brimming with uncertainty.

When has it ever been about how they feel? If they don’t like Wy, they won’t like Wy. Doesn’t mean there’s no place for Wy the Knight Chivalrous in this world, is there? Do you think Aymin cared? When she fused with Tahan at the hip and waged war on all the cities? She did it, knowing she was in the wrong, so why should you falter if you’re doing what you think is just?

Wy’s knees trembled, and he wiped a tear away before it could drop to the ground. He took a deep breath and nodded.

“That’s right,” he said, breathing purposefully. “That’s right. If the bad guys have the resolve, I can muster some up too.”

Have no misgivings; you will get stomped. Not your heart. Your body. They’ll stomp you, for sure. Are you ready?

He thought back to the immense betrayal he felt as the classroom had turned against him. He tried to imagine what that might translate to, physically. Wy fell to the floor.

“I can’t do this,” he gasped, head bent low and weeping pitifully. The familiar gentle hand at his shoulder.

Wy looked up at Tibbula.

“What’s the matter, Your Excellence?” he asked, gently. “Did someone do something to you?”

“I did it…” he sobbed. “I’ve done it to myself all my life.”

Tibbula patted him gently on the back. Another cry from the courtyard. Tibbula looked intently towards the direction and stopped himself from getting up.

“Can I help the impling?” Wy asked.

Instead of the usual not your problem, Tibbula looked at him with an emotion Wy couldn’t entirely place.

“Are you ready for a beating?” Tibbula asked, quietly, looking at him like he…existed, for the first time in his life.

Wy looked back into Tibbula’s eyes.

“No,” he whispered. “But I think…I think I can take a stomping. Do you think I could get away with that instead?”

Tibbula chuckled, masked his eyes and wiped at some stain on his face that must have caught his attention. Odd time to do it, but Wy appreciated the professionalism.

“Alright then, princeling,” Tibbula whispered. “May the Gods forgive me for allowing you to do this.”

Wy’s eyes squinted in confusion and eased into the normal quiet despair.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” he said, getting up to his feet and patting Tibbula on the back. “I think I can take another stomping, as long…as long it’s not for selfish purposes. So that my pride remains intact.”

Tibbula nodded.

“Indeed,” he whispered. “Now go. Learn why the Gods put you on this earth. Make them proud.”

-----

Wy stepped into the courtyard, glaring at the six pillars trying to catch the impling. He’d tried to stop crying, but all he could really picture was his grave, and it filled him with grief. He took a few more steps until he was too far in to pull out.

“Hey!” he squeaked.

No one paid him any attention. The imp was running out of breath and, in a corner, it desperately looked for a way out. A tear rolled down his cheek.

If you can’t do it now, you might as well never have tried.

“Hey!” he shouted, shrilly but loudly. Loud enough for six heads to turn towards him. Wy regretted it immediately, but an odd sense of relief filled him up as well.

“I’m a bastard,” he shouted at them, breaking the single unbreakable rule; never confess to being one. It was also the easiest lie to believe. Freefall. It felt just as good as it had the first time. This time, it felt right as well. “I wonder which of your mothers we share!”

It was hard to believe one half of a lie and not the other. It got their full attention, if it hadn’t before. Wy shuffled back as the six giants converged on him.

“Run!” he shouted at the impling, as he dodged the first fist hurtling at him. A second fist hit him on the side of his head. It wasn’t what he’d expected, much worse in fact, as he flew into the ground. Kicks, punches, more kicks. More kicks. Even more kicks. They really didn’t like using their hands on a self-proclaimed bastard.

But, oddly enough, with every strike, he felt his heart grow lighter. Every strike plucked a note of panic in his heart but there was also a note of relief to go along with it.

This is what I was put here for.

A blade deftly slid between him and the pillars, causing the pillars to jump back in alarm.

“The next fist raised against this one, I will carry out of this place in a bundle with your nose, ears, and eyes,” a soft, cold voice sounded. “And I will hang for it, happily.”

-----

Wy creaked an eye open. A knight fighting a six headed reptile.

“Did…did I do it?” he asked, weakly. “Did I save the—”

He was slapped angrily.

“What were you thinking?!” his mother cried at him. Silent shuffling in the background told him father was here as well. They were in his room. His face was bandaged up, and he was lying in bed. He couldn’t help but feel pleasantly surprised by their presence.

“Where’s Tibbula?” he muttered, still reeling from the slap.

“That incompetent buffoon is gone!” an angry voice. His father’s. “He will never be back, don’t you worry!”

Wy’s heart sank slightly, but he saw his father walking over to his mother and gently placing a hand on her shoulder in reassurance. That familiar uncertainty threatened to overtake him. But something else raged against it, now. Wy wasn’t sure what, but it was on his side.

“I…see,” he said, and closed his eyes.