((OOC Note: hover over the bits in Norwegian to properly read the translation.))

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When we hit roadblocks in life, it falls to us to move past them. By brute force or by other means. These hardships defines our character. How we get past these roadblocks... IF we can get past these roadblocks... affects our public perception, our mindset, our health... it can make you or break you. Kind of like your stories that follow you around.

And just like my stories, I most certainly had my roadblocks too...


I slumped down into the bed, panting and gasping for breath. My 'training' was continuing at a much more fervent pace. After a week or so of merely parrying my attacks when we were sparring with the bokkens, my mother had decided to start hitting me now too. It was minor at first, but even just a few days after this sudden ramping up in intensity, I was going to bed with bruises adorning my body, my sweat starting to cake onto my forehead, my muscles exhausted and begging me to stop.

Hvorfor? I thought. Hvorfor må jeg gå gjennom dette? Liker min mor meg? Hva skjedde med tre sverd å være bare en gave for meg å bruke?

But my tired mind bogged down my thoughts, and I was left blankly staring at the doorway as my parents looked back at me. My father, blissfully unaware of what was occurring between mother and son. Or was he? Was he allowing this to happen? Did my mother tell him?

Speaking of the devil, her voice cut through my thoughts. "Alistair, din far skal jobbe. Vil du gjerne si farvel?"

I weakly tossed my legs to the side, trying to throw myself up, but my body revolted against me, refusing to move, leaving me in an awkward position as I was sprawled on the bed. My father chuckled, sitting down on the bed beside me and ruffling my hair. "Dårlig dag i dag, Ali?" I weakly nodded in response, as my father chuckled and placed my legs back on the bed. "Lytte. Jeg elsker deg. Hold deg trygt." With a small kiss on my forehead, he slowly walked out with my mother, closing the door behind them while trying to make as little noise as possible, a death wish against the creaky floorboards below.

I weakly responded with, "Jeg elsker deg også." In response, my father looked back at me and chuckled again, closing the door. My eyelids fell like stones immediately, forcing me asleep. But as I was cast into my shadowy slumber, I heard voices behind my door. My parents were talking.

"Hva skjedde med Ali i dag?" came my father's distinct voice.

"Han, ah..." My mother struggled to find the proper words, almost as if debating with herself to tell him the truth. My father cut her off.

"Du er starter Ali's trening, ikke sant?" Silence came as a response, and it was the only response my father needed as he sighed. "Lytte. Jeg vet ikke mye om dine profetier eller at du blir svoret for å beskytte folk som dem, men jeg vet at det betyr mye for deg. Men Ali betyr mye for meg. Han er min sønn. Vær så snill, om du skal trene ham for dette, i det minste ta det lettere på ham, først, Julia."

"Jeg beklager, Lars. Jeg var for innpakket i alt, og--"

"Vær så snill, hold det enkelt for nå. Jeg vil ikke miste sønnen min i en treningsulykke."

"Ja, jeg vil."

Finally, I felt like I could sleep.

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...

Or so I thought.

I awoke to the sound of my mother mumbling through the paper-thin walls.

Groaning, I threw my covers aside and forced myself up. My aching bones tried forcing me down, but I stayed up somehow. Following my mother's voice, I gently creaked open the door as the pale moonlight shone through the window, shining brightly in my eyes. Shielding them, I tip-toed across the floor, praying I didn't set off one of the many creaky ones. Her faint voice suddenly started to be heard.

"Hmmm... sjansene er at han sannsynligvis har en sønn nå. Kanskje hans sønn også vil ha en sønn også, i denne hastigheten kommer han til det punktet..."

I began tip-toeing down the stairs now, going at a microscopic pace to make the least amount of noise possible. But who was she talking about?

"Jeg håper Ali vil være klar det når tiden kommer. Jeg ville hater å se noe som skje med ham... bedre å være trene ham opp nå."

I finally approached my mother's office, where she usually keeps to herself and doing whatever activities suits her. As I peered inside, I saw my mother, staring down at a box with a lamp shining down on it. The gleaming light caused me to shield it, but I couldn't see whatever was in the box.

Papers were strewn about, each no doubt with their specific titles and volumes of information. Some of them were pinned too. I hesitantly stepped closer, trying to get a better look, however with my mother's head blocking the way, all I could see is "Jur". Slowly, I stepped forward again, trying to get even better of a glimpse at the paper--

And I stepped over a creaky floorboard.

Almost immediately, I darted back to the darkness silently while my mother's head darted over to where I was. "Hvem er der?"

I forced my mouth closed in response, trying desperately to not let any part of myself be caught in my mother's sight. Slowly, the low sound of a sword being unsheathed clouded my hearing. This was a real, metal sword too, unlike the bokken we were sparring with.

My mother stepped into the hallway, ready to yell and fight as if her life depends on it, however her expression melted immediately upon seeing me, and was replaced with a grimace. And she lunged towards me, tackling me down to the ground, the metal sword pressed against my neck.

"HVOR MYE HAR DU HØRT?!" I was frozen in silence, in shock as my own mother was practically threatening to kill me. Actually, scratch that-- she was threatening to kill me. "VEL?!"

A lump was forming in my throat. I was too afraid to say anything as tears slowly began to stream down my eyes.

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"Det føles som en levetid siden siden det skjedde. Svært som hvordan det kommer til å føle seg for livet siden da jeg mistet motstanderen min når jeg gikk inn i ringen denne lørdagen. Mezian, du har heldig. Ser du, sannheten er? Du er snill av kongen av å trekke flukes ut av hatten din. Men dette er det beste du kan gjøre. Du er på kanten av potensielt å vinne en tittel, men du er bare ... ikke helt der. Men jeg? Meg?"

"Jeg har nettopp kommet i gang."

"Jeg kommer ikke til å la følelser komme i veien for dette. Dette er all forretning, tross alt. Jeg har mistet deg, jeg vil ikke vike bort fra det. Men hvor forskjellen er mellom deg og jeg, er det du bor på alt. Selv med din kamp med Gilmour følte du behovet for å få opp tapet ditt under Lethal Lottery, og bruk det som en unnskyldning for å sette ham ned. Men jeg? Jeg fortsetter å se ting til slutten. Jeg tar ting, hver uke. Jeg ser sluttmålet mitt med hver kamp, og jeg jobber med det. Du tror kanskje du er en drapsmaskin, men du har ikke sett noe enda."

"Og det er nesten morsomt, egentlig, at jeg tar opp deg som en drapsmaskin. Alle dine kampanjer er, er bare fancy røyk og speil. Du lurer deg rundt med all denne snakk om engler, bue-engler, serafimer, djevelen selv ... men vil du vite noe?"

"Alle disse er bare myter. Eventyr. Noe for små barn rundt om i verden for å holde seg i ryggen når de går i dvale slik at de kan oppføre seg. Men hvis dette er en slags fancy intimidasjon taktikk, prøver å skremme av uansett overlegen konkurranse du møter og magisk trekke en fluke ut av ... det fungerer ikke på meg. Jeg snakker ikke i legender. Jeg handler om fakta."

"Og jeg vil holde dette kort og søtt, for jeg kan tydeligvis se deg ikke engang bry deg nok til å prøve å kontakte meg i det hele tatt denne uken, som er den største feilen i livet ditt. Faktum er, Mezian, denne lørdag ... DIN ende er nær."