Memories of a journey 3

More and more these days, I wonder what it means to be strong.
 
Sure, one can sit down and wax poetically about the importance of moral strength, of having willpower in the face of opposition and all of that. That I understood. My father had filled my mind with tales of 'strength' in that vein since I was a child.
 
I had willpower. I had proven I was able to get back up after being knocked down again and again. I had the inspiration to know what true good and heroism was. That kind of strength was covered.
 
But as much as that kind of strength makes for good storytelling… I knew already that it alone was never enough. I was born into a world of gods and monsters. Where evil, true evil, was a tangible thing that could reach out and kill you. Heroes in stories could not always fight evil with tolerance and understanding.
 
That's where strength came in, when the hero is backed to the wall and has to fight their way out.
 
So, to be a hero, I must be strong in all ways. Morally and physically.
 
My muscles scream at me even now, my body shaking as I continue to push. On a busy ship like this there is no place for me to practice with sword or halberd, only the small private room where I have just enough space for my workout routine. To make up for the lack of blade training, I double my physical workouts and try to push my body beyond its limits even in the small space.
 
I try not to think about numbers, as moving toward some flat numerical goal will make me begin to expect an end and begin to slack off. Instead, I started when Noct left for the Galley, I knew roughly how long it would take for him to get each of us a plate of food and come back. Between his overt politeness and the long line for food, it was going to be awhile, so I just had to keep doing push ups till he came back.
 
As I continued to push myself despite the ache, I let my mind wander to try to divert my focus from the pain.
 
Strength. That's what I was thinking about. That's why I was doing this. That's what I needed more of.
 
I had always been strong. My parents had ended up with children that were tall of build and strong of body. Exercising to increase and maintain that strength had been more of a hobby in my youth, to improve my appearance if anything. It had helped with my work of course. I enjoyed quite a reputation, people telling stories of when I had wrestled a raging bull to the ground… sure, in truth it was a fairly young bull, but it had been quite a feat at the time.
 
I had always been strong… for a human. Yet I was only human. I had seen orcs and Dragonborn that could match or well exceed my strength with little effort. My father had spun tales of the powerful Veldrani people of the Pall'tanir, whose bodies were as tall and strong as the mountains. It was a simple matter of birth, these people were just naturally stronger than me, their race was built differently than humans.
 
Then that was just the physical. I had a companion once, Caliban, a rare sight but a helpful one. He was a freelance wizard, used his arcane skills learned over a decade of rigorous study for those that could pay for his services. Caliban's magic was always appreciated in my work when the coin could be spared. Magic was an ability I could never possess. It was not in my blood and the spell scrolls I had seen were not but confusing gibberish… but caliban, a human like me, had spent a decade of his life in study to tame magic to his will.
 
But again… he was only human as well. Many elves were born with magic already at their fingertips. Powerful sorcerers existed that put wizards to shame, their magic coming from their heritage and blood rather than from work and study. Twice the power, half the effort.
 
In many ways, being human can feel as if you are lesser. A human, no matter how well learned, will struggle to match wits with A gnome. The finest of human craftsman will still pale in comparison to dwarven craftsmanship. A friend of mine once said that it was as if, during creation, all the races had been lined up to receive gifts from the god… but when they came to humans, the gods found their pockets empty.
 
Even my companion Noct, though I am thankful for his abilities, boasts power that no doubt exceeds my own. He may not be quite as physically strong as me, but he had begun to tap into a well of magic all his own with equal power to harm and to heal.
 
In the end. I am only human. My limits are clear. I have no magic and I will never be as strong as other races. The burning of my muscles was a brutal reminder that I was pushing hard on the limits of humanity.
 
I was snapped out of my thoughts by the sound of the door opening, a quick glance confirming it was Noct. Registering his arrival as the sign to stop, my muscles immediately gave out before I had the chance to allow them to. I hit the floor a heaving sweaty mess. As I lay there panting and trying to control my breathing I was dimly aware of Noct moving around the room. He set the plates of food on the bed, then kneeled next to me.
 
"You're going to get hurt if you keep doing this to yourself" Noct sighs, pushing some of the sweat soaked hair out of my face and patting my brow dry with a cloth. I say nothing, just continue to breathe and try to ignore the pain lancing through my body.
 
I am only human… but if I am going to stand in a world of gods and monsters and make them remember the name Bellamy Bashira; then I would need to find the limits of humanity, and push beyond even that.