Wind bit at Elias's exposed cheeks. He clutched the worn leather satchel tighter, its emptiness a cold knot in his gut. Mother's cough had worsened overnight, a rattling sound that echoed his own fear.
Elder Lyra's herbs were their only hope. Dust swirled around his worn boots. Each step on the uneven path felt like scaling a mountain. The forest pressed in, dark and ancient.
Every rustle of leaves a potential threat. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Panic was a familiar friend, albeit a cruel one. It coiled in his stomach, a tight, nauseating ball.
He imagined his mother's fading breath, the chill in her small, frail hand. He *had* to get those herbs. Fear, however, had other plans.
Ahead, the path vanished. A fresh rockslide, minor but formidable, had spilled from the cliff face. Not a massive collapse, just a jagged mound of stones, some no bigger than his fist, others heavy and awkward.
Blocking the way completely. He froze. His breath hitched. A cold sweat pricked his skin, despite the brisk morning air.
His vision blurred at the edges, the world narrowing to that impossible heap of stone. It wasn’t a mountain. It was just a pile of rocks. Still, his limbs locked. Adrenaline surged, not with courage, but with overwhelming dread.
He couldn't move them. He couldn't even think how to begin. What if one shifted? What if he twisted an ankle? What if he failed? His mind screamed. Failure. Always failure.
Footsteps approached from behind. Elias flinched, instinctively pressing himself against the rock face, trying to vanish. A stout merchant, laden with furs and a wide, reassuring smile, rounded the bend.
"Morning, young one!" the merchant boomed, his voice surprisingly cheerful for such an early hour. He saw the rockslide. "Ah, a minor inconvenience, nothing a bit of elbow grease won't fix. Been worse, I tell ya."
A faint flicker. Elias felt it, a whisper of sensation. It was the merchant's momentary resolve, his simple, everyday courage at facing a small obstacle. Not heroic bravery, just practical grit.
Elias's 'Coward's Blessing' stirred. A cold tendril of energy reached out from Elias's core. It latched onto that fleeting spark within the merchant, a silent, invisible theft. He felt the mental warmth, the solid resolve, drain from the older man, pooling into his own empty vessel.
The merchant blinked. A momentary confusion clouded his eyes, a subtle dip in his cheerful demeanor. Then he shrugged, the moment passing, replaced by a slightly more resigned expression. He simply looked at the rocks with less enthusiasm.
Elias, however, felt a sudden, artificial surge. His knees stopped trembling. The knot in his stomach loosened. The rockslide, a moment ago an insurmountable fortress, now looked... manageable.
His own fear had receded, replaced by a hollow echo of someone else's determination. He moved, almost without conscious thought. Selecting a large, flat stone, he wedged it under a heavier boulder.
Grunting, he pushed. The borrowed strength, cold and impersonal, fueled his muscles. Dust plumed around his feet. Sweat beaded on his brow, real sweat, earned by physical exertion, not terror.
He lifted, he shoved, he kicked. Piece by piece, the path began to clear. The merchant watched, a slight frown touching his lips. He started to pick at a loose thread on his tunic, his previous readiness to help now a distant memory.
He offered no assistance. Elias didn't mind. He preferred to be alone with his strange power. He preferred to pretend this strength was his own. The illusion was fragile, but comforting.
Minutes crawled by. His muscles ached, but the panic remained at bay. He cleared enough for a person to pass, then for a laden beast of burden. The path was open again.
He stepped back, chest heaving. The artificial energy began to wane, leaving him feeling strangely drained. Not tired, but empty. A subtle hollowness settled deep within his bones.
"Well done, young man," the merchant said, his voice flat. He offered no further praise, no shared camaraderie. He simply stepped past Elias, continuing his journey without a backward glance.
Elias watched him go. A fresh wave of despair threatened to resurface. He had done it. He had cleared the path. But the victory felt cheap, stolen. It wasn't *his* triumph.
He resumed his trek, the satchel still light, the purpose of his journey sharp in his mind. The siphoned resilience had faded almost entirely now, leaving only the dull ache of its absence. He felt weaker than before, as if a part of his own spirit had been scraped away in the process.
This was his 'Coward's Blessing'. A curse, more like. It allowed him to function, to overcome the small challenges that would otherwise paralyze him. But it never felt real. It never made *him* stronger. Only temporarily less afraid.
His mother’s face flashed in his mind. Her pale skin, her labored breathing. He pushed the thought of his own inadequacy aside. He had cleared the path. That was what mattered. The herbs awaited.
The forest deepened. Shadows lengthened between the ancient trees. He hurried, the urgency of his mission battling against the quiet dread that always simmered beneath his skin. Every snapped twig, every distant bird call, tightened his nerves.
He imagined his mother coughing again, her eyes pleading. He had to be quick. He had to be brave. Not *his* bravery, but borrowed, fleeting, hollow bravery.
Finally, the familiar clearing appeared. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney of Elder Lyra's small, moss-covered hut. Relief, sharp and painful, washed over him, almost bringing him to his knees.
He stumbled towards the door, his hand reaching for the latch. He was here. He had made it. His heart thumped, a frantic drumbeat of exhaustion and lingering anxiety.
He could finally get the herbs. His satchel, still clutched in his trembling hand, bumped against his leg. A faint flutter. Something light, dry, and distinctly foreign drifted from its opening.
Elias looked down. A single, withered black petal. Its edges curled inward, like something ancient and forgotten. It was unlike any flora he’d ever seen, a chilling, silent offering. He didn't remember picking it up.