Chapter 58 - You've Been Through Hell
Amukelo sat there in heavy silence, his gaze fixed on the table as if the wood grains held the answers he was searching for. His hands trembled slightly, resting on the edge of the table, as he wrestled internally with the decision—to share or not to share.
The others sat quietly, exchanging uneasy glances, their initial curiosity now tinged with discomfort as the silence stretched on. Pao fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve, Idin kept glancing toward Bral as if urging him to break the awkwardness, and even Bao, who usually maintained a hardened demeanor, shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
Finally, Bral sighed, his voice soft but cutting through the tension. "Well, I can see it's difficult for you, Amukelo. Don't worry about it—if you don't want to tell us, just say so. We won't force it out of you."
Just then, the waiter returned, balancing a tray with six freshly poured mugs of ale. He placed them on the table, the rich golden liquid sloshing slightly in the wooden cups, before quickly moving on to another table. The scent of the ale wafted through the air, but no one reached for their drink yet.
Amukelo finally lifted his head, his eyes slightly glassy but determined. He shook his head slowly. "No," he murmured, his voice cracking slightly before he steadied it. "I'll tell you guys. You've given me a lot... You invited me into your group, treated me like one of your own. I think I owe you the truth."
No one said anything. They just watched him—waiting.
Amukelo reached for one of the mugs and, with a deep breath, lifted it to his lips. Without pausing, he downed the entire mug in long, deep gulps. The bitter liquid burned his throat, but he didn't stop until the last drop was gone. He slammed the mug down onto the table with a hollow thud and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his nerves slightly dulled by the alcohol.
"As a kid," he began, his voice low but steady, "my mother used to read me stories." His eyes softened at the thought, a distant warmth flickering beneath the pain. "She was the only parent I had. My father... I don't even know who he was. And I had two brothers, but they left us early in my life."
The group sat in silence, absorbing every word. Amukelo's fingers traced lazy patterns on the wooden table as he continued, lost in the past.
"Our village was poor—poorer than you can probably imagine. Books were rare, a luxury barely anyone could afford. Then he smiled nostalgically, "I remember parents in the village would trade them, passing tales from family to family. I heard the same stories dozens of times, but I never got tired of them. They were all we had." He smiled faintly, though there was no joy in it—only a deep, aching nostalgia.
He cleared his throat before continuing. "There was one story I really loved. It was about Elian the Resolute." He glanced up at the others. "You know the story, right?"
They all nodded. Bral leaned forward slightly. "Well, maybe not the exact version you heard, but yeah. We know who he was—and what he did."
Amukelo nodded. "Yeah. He was everything I wanted to be. Brave. Strong. He stood for something greater than himself, fought for others." His fingers tensed on the table. "I wanted to be like him... to have purpose, to be strong enough to protect what mattered."
He paused, staring into the empty mug as if it might refill with answers. "I used to wander a lot as a kid. Even though I wasn't supposed to. On my tenth birthday, my best friend and I decided to go on an 'adventure'—you know, just two dumb kids trying to find excitement." His lips curled into a slight smile at the memory. "We went too far into the forest and got lost. At first, we panicked, but then... we stumbled onto this small clearing. There was a hut there, nestled between the trees, almost like it had been there forever. It felt... out of place."
Pao leaned forward, eyes wide with curiosity. "A hut? In the middle of the forest?"
Amukelo nodded, his smile now laced with something darker. "Yeah. That's where I met an old elf. His name was Syltar. He lived alone—looked ancient, even for an elf. We were terrified at first, but he wasn't cruel or anything. He took us in, gave us water, and told us stories. Proba ly to comfort us a little bit. He also helped us get back to the village." His voice softened. "His stories were different from the ones in the village. They were older—about magic, warriors, things that felt... real. I don't know why, but I kept visiting him after that. I'd sneak out whenever I could."
Then Amukelo gave a distant smile, though pain flickered behind it. "Later he also became my teacher." He paused for a moment, his hands tightening into fists. "At first, I thought he was just eccentric, like an old man stuck in his ways. But he made it clear that if I wanted to keep hearing his stories, I had to earn them by getting stronger. "
Bral let out a low whistle. "Damn. That's a tough hand."
Amukelo chuckled softly, though the sound was hollow. "Yeah. But I didn't care. I trained. A lot. But honestly, that was rather to be safe when visiting him."
Bral leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "The stories must've been something special to push you that far."
Amukelo's eyes darkened slightly, the weight of old memories bearing down. "They were," he murmured, his voice tinged with both longing and pain. "They really were."
Amukelo took another deep breath, the weight of his story sitting heavily on his chest. He raised the mug to his lips, taking a long sip of the ale—not draining it, but enough to ease the tightness in his throat. He set the mug down gently and continued.
"So, after a few years since I discovered Syltar, my brothers left the village." He glanced up briefly, eyes distant, before focusing back on the table. "They didn't say much—just packed up and left. I was still young then, but I understood why. There was nothing for them there. Our village was poor, and hope... well, it was in short supply."
No one interrupted him. The others sat silently, watching, listening, their expressions softening with each word.
"At first, it was tough," Amukelo went on, "but my mother was strong. She didn't complain—not once. We adapted. I worked harder in the fields, hunted more, and we found our pace. Life wasn't easy, but it was... good." He paused, staring into his mug again, then took another slow sip. "Until she got sick."
His voice cracked slightly at that, and the words hung in the air, heavy and painful. Amukelo clenched his jaw, pushing through the rising lump in his throat.
"It happened slowly. One day, when we were working in the fields, she collapsed. I thought she was just tired—she'd been pushing herself too hard. But when I tried to help her up, I noticed how pale she was... how frail." His hands balled into fists on the table. "She didn't get better. Every day, she got weaker, until she couldn't even get out of bed."
Pao covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes glossy with tears. Even Bao, who usually kept a hard exterior, had her gaze cast downward, her lips pressed into a thin line.
"I did everything I could," Amukelo continued, his voice growing more strained. "I worked from sunrise to sunset. Hunted, traded, did odd jobs—anything to get enough money to buy medicines. But nothing worked. Nothing helped." He shook his head slowly, the memory still fresh, still raw. "And then, during one of the harshest winter storms I'd ever seen... she passed away."
The table was deathly quiet now. Amukelo's shoulders slumped as though the retelling had drained what little energy he had left.
"Before she died, she called me to her side." His voice softened now, barely above a whisper. "She told me to live my life fully. To not let grief consume me. She reminded me of my dream—to become like Elian the Resolute. She made me promise her that I'd follow the path that would fulfill me." A hollow chuckle escaped his lips. "Looking back now, I realize she probably said that just to help me focus on something else. To give me hope. But I promised her. And I meant it."
He took another drink, letting the ale burn its way down, numbing the sharp edges of the pain.
"That's when I started training under Syltar. Really training." His gaze darkened, remembering the harshness of those days. "He didn't go easy on me. Said if I wanted to survive, to achieve anything, I had to endure the wilderness. Had to learn from it. He gifted me my blade when he thought I was ready and told me to leave the village... to find my strength out there, alone."
Amukelo looked up at the others, forcing a half-smile—a broken, fragile thing. "So I did. And now, I'm here. I'm... happy, I guess. Because I get to be with you guys."
His words hung there, a forced attempt to lighten the moment, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. The others sat in stunned silence, absorbing the weight of his story. Then, without saying a word, Bral picked up his mug and drained the remaining ale in one long gulp. He slammed the empty mug down on the table, his face serious now.
"You've been through hell, Amukelo," Bral finally said, his voice deep and rough. "But you came out the other side. And you're still pushing forward. That means something. I'm sure when your mother looks down on you from heaven, she smiles knowing how far you've come." His words carried a weight that was both comforting and heavy, laced with genuine respect.
Pao, her eyes still glossy, nodded quickly. "Yeah," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "And if there's anything we can do to help you get where you want to go—to help you fulfill that promise—you can count on us."
Idin, leaning back in his chair, managed a small smile, lifting his mug toward Amukelo. "We'll get there together. You're not alone anymore."
Bao, who had been silent the longest, glanced up, her eyes meeting Amukelo's. "Yeah," she muttered, her tone softer than usual. "We're a team after all."
Amukelo swallowed hard, his throat tightening. He hadn't expected this. He had feared judgment, pity, maybe even distance—but not this. Not acceptance. Not warmth.
"Thanks," he managed, his voice trembling despite his best efforts. "That... that means a lot."
Bral grinned, his mood lifting again as he grabbed his mug. "Then let's drink to that! To your resilience, to your future, and to our futute as an guild. Cheers!"
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"Cheers!" they echoed, their voices stronger now, more unified.
Amukelo raised his mug, clinking it against theirs. He took a long drink, feeling something shift inside him—not the ale, not the buzz of alcohol, but something deeper. A warmth. A sense of belonging.