“A fool spills his blood where a wiser would not waste it.” — Beneebian proverb
Photo credit: Josian
Baran sat cross-legged, staring at the heavy glass floating before him, wobbling. He’d thought casting the spell would be the difficult part. And it was. Of the five original apprentices, only he had come this far.
But this was harder.
Behind him, Asdor clucked. “Keep it steady. You need to concentrate, boy.”
Baran focused, tipping the glass slowly to pour the liquid drop by drop.
“Careful, now. This isn’t a race.”
Asdor banged something against the floor and Baran startled. Liquid sloshed onto the floor.
“Out there, you won’t have the luxury of quiet. Get used to distractions, tune them out.”
The old man made other sounds, but Baran studiously ignored them. The glass was half empty when he began to worry. Asdor had not harangued him for some time.
Baran ventured a word, letting it slip out softly to not disturb the spell. “Asdor?”
No response, only a slight gurgle.
Asdor might be fooling him. No, he could not take the chance.
When Baran twisted back, the glass fell, splashing, shattering.
He scooped the unconscious man into his arms and raced to the temple.
Later, Asdor smiled weakly. “Another lesson almost too hard-won, boy. Focus is fools-blood without priorities.”
Word count: 200. Submitted for this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction challenge. Thanks as always to Alastair Forbes for hosting (his last month of doing do, sadly), and for providing the original photo prompt, below. I thought I wouldn’t have time today to participate, but I recognized this photo, and I’m cheating and using the story I posted back when he last used the photo, in May of 2016. So if it sounds familiar, that’s why.
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Photo © A Mixed Bag