She listens intently as he speaks, the color draining a little from her face. She is clay beneath his hands, easily assuming the appropriate stance, soldering and strengthening, her shoulders falling back, her shield raised high, her feet set apart. But she does not like it, the feeling of the blade against her palm, and her fingers grip and pulse unhappily as she regrets the steps that have led them here, the call for violence and misery.
Then he is in front of her, his blade raised high, and Amalia finds herself looking up into the glinting silver and swallowing, her throat suddenly dry. He is a patient teacher, steady and calm; it sets the girl a little at ease, makes her breathing still and relax despite the thundering of her heart. She has to remember that it is him, Deimos, her Deimos, that he is strength and stability and patience and would not hurt her nor ask her to hurt. Still, she is aware of the scars on his arms, and for the first time considers what those mean. Has he given one out for each he bears? More - or worse, taken a life? What has the cost of survival been, for one from such a world of hardship and war?
Amalia swallows and raises the shield, wincing at the sound of silver striking steel.
His motion is violent, aggressive, frightening, and the girl knows that she looks pale, knows the appall upon her face. Still she tries to soldier on, swallowing down her hopeless dismay, ignoring the image of blood and viscera spilling so easily over his hands. It is her turn, next, as much as she loathes it. Licking her lips and steeling herself, the baker nods her silent assent. Return the motion, repeat and retort- it is a constant in any sort of training, translatable between sword and staff. She tells herself that as she adjusts her footing, repeats it like a mantra as she raises her arm. It isn't real, it isn't real. It isn't real.
Slinging her arm down in a fluid motion, Amalia replicates his strike.
Then he is in front of her, his blade raised high, and Amalia finds herself looking up into the glinting silver and swallowing, her throat suddenly dry. He is a patient teacher, steady and calm; it sets the girl a little at ease, makes her breathing still and relax despite the thundering of her heart. She has to remember that it is him, Deimos, her Deimos, that he is strength and stability and patience and would not hurt her nor ask her to hurt. Still, she is aware of the scars on his arms, and for the first time considers what those mean. Has he given one out for each he bears? More - or worse, taken a life? What has the cost of survival been, for one from such a world of hardship and war?
Amalia swallows and raises the shield, wincing at the sound of silver striking steel.
His motion is violent, aggressive, frightening, and the girl knows that she looks pale, knows the appall upon her face. Still she tries to soldier on, swallowing down her hopeless dismay, ignoring the image of blood and viscera spilling so easily over his hands. It is her turn, next, as much as she loathes it. Licking her lips and steeling herself, the baker nods her silent assent. Return the motion, repeat and retort- it is a constant in any sort of training, translatable between sword and staff. She tells herself that as she adjusts her footing, repeats it like a mantra as she raises her arm. It isn't real, it isn't real. It isn't real.
Slinging her arm down in a fluid motion, Amalia replicates his strike.
