Every morning he comes out here and does his exercises. Some mornings it’s simple calisthenics, others he takes off for a run around the woods nearby. But today is special, and that’s why I’m out here slowly letting dew soak through my pants as the sun breaks the horizon.
Today he brought his blade. It was old, but he won’t tell me how old. It’s form simple, unadorned, it’s a weapon and an efficient one. It’s single handed grip ends in a rounded pommel, it’s hilt is minimal and barely more than a raised edge between his grip and the blade itself, which was just shy of two feet long and about as wide as my palm. He stands, still and poised, blade held vertical out in front of him as his other arm stretches back to balance.
I never know how long he’ll hold this position, mediating and finding his center. But this is my favorite part, the anticipation for what comes next. Dew mists him and goose-flesh raises as the morning chill kisses his skin. His discipline never breaks and I’ve never seen him show discomfort or complaint regardless of the weather around him when he’s like this. It’s both a little frightening and utterly beautiful.
Without any preamble, it starts. My breath stills as I’m caught up in the explosion of movement. One second he’s still as a statue, arms outstretched, blade at ready, eyes closed. The next heartbeat, he’s a whirling dervish. The blade is an extension of his arm. Every turn, every swing, and every thrust a perfect blend of force, balance, and grace. He pivots his foot and brings himself around and low, then back in an upper defense and thrust. He never stops moving, each move flowing into the next as the blade slices through the air. His feet step deftly through the wet grass, pivoting and sliding in controlled motions as he works up the clearing and back. Thrusts, cuts, kicks, and pommel strikes. Backhands, blocks, and feints. It’s precision and function, honed to a glorious dance of controlled violence.
He pivots again and the blade is a whirling circle eight in front of him as he advances, his steps measured. With a stomp and a battle cry, he thrusts the blade ahead and holds. His muscles seemingly thrum with tension as the moment stretches out. I’m still holding my breath and let out a little gasp as I remember to breath. His eyes still closed, sweat dripping off his nose, his face is at perfect peace as the blade stands at ready thrust out in front of him, his other arm swept back for balance.
Then the moment ends, and with a puff of breath he lowers his blade, shaking out his shoulders. He kneels and carefully cleans the blade and scabbards it before turning to me. “You seriously need a hobby so you’ll stop just being a creeper during my work outs.” His grin and the flush across his cheeks and chest and the tilt of his eyebrow are just too much and my laughter is deep and rich, and then I’m running to tackle him to the grass before I even form the thought. Laughing, he takes off, naked and graceful as a deer, and I give chase.
Later on and with some new grass stains, I’m standing in the spot he occupied earlier on the field. “I don’t know why you insist on this, you’re just gonna knock me on my ass, I’m going to swear a lot, then you’re going to get frustrated. And I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to use that weak spot on your neck to sweet talk you again…”
Whack! His practice blade swings in low and swats my upper thigh. “Ow, godsdammit!” I’m hopping and grabbing my leg. Damn that stung.
“Ok, buttercup, you asked for this.” He grins at my lame attempt to trash talk. I tighten my grip on Excalibur and shift my feet to the combat footing he taught me. Excalibur is my crowbar, forty-eight inches of cold forged iron, which I’ve slowly etched with a number of sigils, glyphs, and runic charms. Steady hand, vibration dampening, a couple nasty fuck you’s to various things that go bump in the night, and a iffy charm that should keep it near at hand, but I swear just makes the damn thing go wandering every now and then when it gets bored.
Will wanted me to have a personal weapon, but told me to pick something I’d be comfortable going into a fight with. When he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed heavily when I asked if charm magic worked on shotguns, I cast about a bit thinking of what I’d actually use. Thankfully, that was answered for me when an agent of the unseelie court made the mistake of trying to ambush me while I was changing the tire of the truck. Sure got a rather nasty surprise when I cracked him across the jaw with a bit over three pounds of cold iron. He had come at me with a dagger in hand, but he wasn’t prepared for my reckless charge with the only thing at hand…the crowbar I kept handy to pop the covers off the wheels. I’ve kept it near since. I block a lazy thrust and counter, bringing the weight of my block around to an overhead chop “Oh good, you didn’t forget everything I taught you…” he says, skipping back out of the swing.
And he feints left, then cuts across with a vicious backhand slash. I swing Excalibur up and send his dulled blade skyward with a clang. He pivots and redirects his momentum; taking his blade up and arching it back down in a half figure eight. I’m out of position to bring my crowbar to deflect and awkwardly skip out of the way, barely dodging his downswing. With a step, he arrests his swing and brings it back to a neutral position. I step back into my own and we square up. This time I take the initiative, lunging forward with the curved end of Excalibur, hoping to bull through his defense and put him on his heel.
Thud!
Laying on my back, staring up into the blue sky, I realize that may have been a poor move to try. A second later, when his face leans into view with a huge grin on it, I know two things – it was absolutely the wrong move, and I’d be damned if I admit it to him yet. Gripping my raised hand, he pulls me back to my feet. “Ok, back into position. And…start!”
No comments:
Post a Comment