The Mage Rebecca Daydreams in Class

The Mage Rebecca Daydreams in Class

A Story by Jones Crimson
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Magic Sword Duels, or at least shes trying.

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            It was just another routine for him, another pointless spar to help me take even a single step closer to him.  It wasn’t even so much as a game, just tedium.  I could feel the wind pressure with his every move despite him holding back as much as he could with his strikes.  A blade passing by without gracing the outlying seams of my garments: he think he can startle me.  He’s right, too.

 

            Whenever I falter even a moment, when I miss my mark when I step back, I feel like it’s going to hit me and I hesitate.  Still, despite my countless mistakes and even misconceptions of fighting with a sword he never once leaves a mark on me.  He can’t bear the thought of taking what wasn’t given.  Others won’t see it, but I know he is a gentle and kind person.  Even if all that has long since left his eyes I can still see it deep within.

 

            A strike comes close while my thoughts trail and I duck and deflect while preparing to close the gap.  Without effort he moves to the edge of its reach and swats the sword out of my hands.

 

            Michael:  “Still not taking this seriously?”

 

            Rebecca:  “It’s harder than it looks.  I always start to think these spars are like dancing and I get lost in the moment.”

 

            Michael:  “You’re making it difficult to teach.  So, do you think you could win if you were dancing with a stranger?”

 

            Rebecca:  “As if I would ever have to fight someone as strong as you.  You’re one of a kind.”

 

            Michael:  “My teacher is stronger.  Countless times stronger, his strength was immeasurable.  He took me down to a tenth of my power.  If you can’t even handle my strength then I can’t keep you around when I fight.  You’re a liability.  Do you understand that much?”

            Rebecca:  “Alright, I’m sorry.  Let’s go again.”

 

            I pick up my blade.

 

            Michael:  “I’ll add some incentive.”

 

            He pulls up his hood and holds his hand up over the dirt.  It forms a clump and hovers up into his grasp.  He pulls it out and it takes shape and color as a mask.

 

            Michael:  “My master wore one just like this.  They would say his bloodlust was the only thing that escaped it, his eyes were mere decoration in the clay that formed his face.  His methods were very different from mine, but maybe they weren’t wrong.”

 

            He puts the mask on, and suddenly there’s a glimmer of something in his eyes.  It’s not the gentleness I’m accustomed to.  It’s not Michael.  His first strike was almost completely serious.  He normally lets me make the first move so he can exploit my openings, but he bridges the meter wide gap in a thrust.  As his blade barely misses me his awful eyes are still following me and his hand is turned to return the blade back around for a second slash.  The second strike is just as strong.  It pushes the spine of my sword into me.  I can feel my hand breaking in the guard.

 

            Michael:  “Get up if you want to continue as my apprentice.”

 

            I scramble to my feet and prepare to take the next hit.  This time I won’t attempt to lay low as it hits me, I’ll stay light on my feet and move back with the force of it.  This is what that “master” did to Michael.  This is what was left of Michael’s training, this hatred.  I hit back against the strike from above and lift my foreleg to retract it, but it was too much and I stumbled back to hit a giant oak.  He flicks his blade and I prepare for the thrust by twirling around the tree at my back.  His strike pierces the tree.

 

            His blade, no longer even sharp, rips through it to his left and it begins to fall.  I continue to round the tree along the other side and kick him under.  He falls to a knee and grips the tree above with his free hand.  I see the opportunity and close the gap.  He flicks my blade away without effort, and I step further forward to strike with my bare fist.  His mask cracks, it shatters, it falls away and I can see the anger fade from his eyes.  He takes the hit without flinching, still holding the tree up like it’s not even there.

 

            I realize I must look like a mess and struggle to regain composure.  I brush my hands through my hair to clean my looks up.  He steps up from his knee and the tree cracks at the half of the base still attached.

 

            Michael:  “Your shoulder is bleeding, let me heal it.”

 

            Rebecca:  “I can heal it myself.”

 

            Michael:  “It will leave a scar that way.”

 

            Rebecca:  “Your master left you plenty.”

 

            Michael:  “Which is why I want to do better for your sake.”

 

            Rebecca:  “Whatever.”

 

            I storm off towards camp expecting him to follow.  He’s such a dimwit sometimes.

 

            Rebecca:  “Can you put that thing down and come with?”

 

            Michael:  “No.”

 

            Rebecca:  “What do you mean by no?!”

 

            Michael:  “My hand is stuck.”

 

            Rebecca:  “Well, put your sword away and get it out, do you need help?”

 

            Michael:  “Remember who the teacher is here, Rebecca.”

 

            He places his blade in sheath and digs his other hand into the trunk before ripping it in half.  He also retrieves my own forgotten blade for me.  By this time I had also forgotten we had company of two traders travelling the route.

 

            Kiel:  “You really slugged him good!”

 

            I couldn’t help but blush.

 

            Kiel:  “What the heck are you doing with that giant log segment?”

 

            Michael:  “Haven’t decided.  I’m thinking novelty chest.”

 

            Kiel:  “I’ll give you whatever I’ve got in my pocket for it, twenty three den and a haypenny.”

 

            Michael:  “I only work with pure metals.  Thirty den and I’ll consider it.”

 

            Rebecca:  “I can’t believe I’d let a man like you charm me.”

 

            Michael:  “I don’t use mental magics offensively, too inconsistent.”

 

            Rebecca:  “Maybe you would be more appealing if you weren’t so consistent, ever think of that?”

 

            Michael:  “Are we all still having the same conversation?”

 

            Kiel tries to shrug while I’m not looking, but I catch him in the corner of my eye so he decides to stretch and stand up to head back to his tent.

 

            Brunjolf:  “I think the two of you should be more open with…”

 

            A stray sword flies over and embeds itself in the side of wagon near Brunjolf.

 

            Brunjolf:  “Point taken.”

© 2017 Jones Crimson



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Jones Crimson
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Added on March 2, 2017
Last Updated on March 2, 2017

Author

Jones Crimson
Jones Crimson

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Seeking representation, contact for more information. I have complete works not posted here. I enjoy writing Fantasy, but I've had musings in almost all subjects; with the exception of Romance. .. more..

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