Sam immediately got into training Robert. Picked him up from the ground and went to go find a big stone. Robert was feeling confused when Ron started the explanation. "We're going to start with strength training. You have some skill seeing as how you survived a troll. But," he gestures at Robert's arms, "you don't have the strength nor the breath to survive a war." He stops for a moment in contemplation. "You also need to learn how to follow orders."
Ron continued his drilling, teaching 'proper' form of how to run with the stone when Sam came back with two sizable stones in his hands. He throws the stone from fifteen feet. It arced through the air and landed not a foot away. "That," he pauses to breathe in, "is what you will be carrying. You'll be following me and we'll go for ten bands. Keep up."
He starts a light jog towards the hills and Robert scrambles to pick up the stone and keep up. It's heavier than he thought it would be but it's not that bad. His strides were weird and lopsided, the stone was throwing him off kilter. Going uphill dragged away his air with every step. The stone pushed his feet deeper and more forceful into the earth. Shins are already sore and the thighs are burning.
Sam was getting farther and farther away as Robert lagged behind. He really wasn't that active, already heaving and sputtering after five minutes.
Ron looked on from afar with eyes getting darker and darker. How is Robert going to survive when he's already breaking? War won't allow him to break. Men and beasts will cut him down if he breaks during war. Ron shakes his head. There's much work to be done.
*
They had run for maybe fifteen minutes and Robert's entire body was screaming at him. His lungs shudder for air as ragged gasps expand and contract them. His legs quake with every step and nearly buckle. Forearm, bicep, and shoulder twitch as the stone passes right to left, right to left.
Sam barely looked bothered with the run. Would he become like that if he trained? Would it be worth it? He could just settle down, learn a trade of some kind. There's no need for this, for war and fighting and training. He could have a good life, maybe. Maybe.. Maybe. Would that be right though? Is that why Wyrev placed him here, here with this divine gift?
Golden blood and ichor coursed through his veins, given to him by his great benefactor. Would it not be a spit in the face to Wyrev if he simply lives a simple life? Live, survive, thrive, those are his objectives. Would he thrive if he lived that simple life? No, no he wouldn't, not when he could be so much better.
Fire realight in his heart, it burned greater as blood and life flowed through them. His pace quickened and his breath calmed. Instead of lagging behind, he shot forth like a bullet. Fast and faster until he was right beside Sam, to his great surprise. Then beyond Sam, running and sprinting through hills and across creeks and streams. For the first time since coming here, he had a purpose. A life to live for.
Tears streamed down his face as laughter rose from his gut. Is this what living feels like? It's the first time he's felt this. This joy, this sense of purpose. It's when he's lost in thought that from the corner he sees a movement. Sam caught up and has outpaced him. Not letting himself lose this height of life, Robert sped up to.
The rest of the run was both of them speeding up to overtake the other until Robert's body gave up. He fell hard and could not rise for everything was spent. Mortality creeped back into his heart and slowed the output of Life. But it was okay. He knew what he had to achieve now, what he had to strive for. As his body slowed down, so did his mind. Blurred sounds of Sam and Ron panicking over him and flashes of image came ever so slowly. Finally his eyes closed and sleep truly overtake him.
*
A palace of marble, gold, and silver. Within his throne room sat an old man clad in ancient king's garbs. Platinum white hair glistened in the ceiling gaze. He sat slanted, his head resting upon his left fist. In front of his eyes was an orb which showed the image of Robert sleeping on the ground.
Wyrev's mouth was parted in a fatherly smile. His child had just found its calling. Would it end great or terribly, he knew not. He could know, but who wishes certainty upon their child? No, he'd watch from afar, influence his child so that it will find its best path. What would a Father be if not that?