That interaction with Circe had defined much of what happened over the days that followed, and it had built an intimacy of purpose between them that had only grown with time. With that, of course, had come other challenges.

Circe had begun to shed her naturally trained demure modesty when around him.

The Leos Heiress was not by her nature a shy nor falsely humble woman when it came to her physical beauty, and Arthur had noticed a steady shift in her sense of conservative propriety when they were alone.

Where before she had retained a sense of clear distance and separation in how she dressed, and acted, and conducted herself; much of that separation had slowly eroded over the course of the long cycles.

She had taken to walking close to him with no consideration for space nor distance, sometimes while holding his arm or leaning against him casually. She had started going for swims in her undergarments, with no thought for proper bathing attire, and only him to stand watch over her within the private pool in her wing of the palace.

She had also taken to attending their on-going armed and unarmed sparring sessions in tight-fitting tops that allowed her freedom of movement, but also did little to obscure anything beyond her generous bust.

Were it not for her skill and the focus on their fights such skill demanded, he’d have been far more distracted by the lightly tanned flesh on display.

Circe had also paired her chosen tops with form-fitting shorts, or skin-tight leggings, which revealed her powerful thighs, toned calves, and long legs in ways that eroded his sanity each time they did battle.

Her flesh was like the richest silk, and smooth enough that when she did sweat during their workouts, each droplet rolled down the contours of her defined physique in a way that forced Arthur to mentally hit himself repeatedly and remind himself of their conversation at the Lion’s Pride.

That wasn’t the worst of it, though. Nor the most confusing part of it all.

The most bewildering aspect was that Circe would only ever reveal such attire after arriving at the private, open-aired hilltop overlooking the ocean atop the estate’s plateau where she insisted they meet to spar.

She would make her way to their sparring location wearing a modest chiton or pull-over dress, only to sashay out of it easily and place it aside the moment they were alone as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

For all that he believed she had taken their talk at the Lion’s Pride to heart, and for all that she acted as if she had, part of Arthur had started to wonder. To question. To worry.

He’d begun to think that perhaps Circe Leos wanted more from him than she’d said.

He’d begun to worry that perhaps he wanted more from her than he’d said, as well.

Stolen story; please report.

Things finally came to a head during the end of the final day of their Hellenic week.

“I’m going to beat you, today!” Circe crowed competitively while her xiphos whined through the air to clash with his bastard sword, and send a clang of metal echoing throughout the courtyard.

“Not at that speed.” Arthur responded calmly while stepping back to let her advance.

Circe took the opening and pressed with an overhead strike, which Arthur caught with a procedural upward parry and transitioned into a diagonal blade-lock. His eyes flickered to Circe and focused on her when he did, and he momentarily let himself just feel her presence. He thought of her scent, her smile, her spirit. He thought of how he felt around her.

Resonance flared through Arthur’s mind, and he knew what she would do.

He tensed his muscles and shifted his footing in anticipation a moment later.

Circe instinctively pushed her weight forward in an attempt to overpower him exactly two seconds after resonance had given him the insights, and Arthur used his pre-emptive change of footing and superior strength to firmly throw her backward and off-balance.

It was the third hour of their sparring for the day, and neither of them had worked up more than a light sweat. Their genetic alterations, paired with their additional personal fitness, meant that they could continue at full speed for far longer than humans historically could. Where the average 31st century human might have been able to fight continuously at high intensity for two or three hours as they were, it would have resulted in exhaustion by hour four.

Circe and Arthur could fight non-stop for close to twelve hours before they even started to feel tired, if necessary.

The clash of blades filled the air again while Arthur danced against Circe’s renewed attacks, and he acknowledged mentally that the heiress had improved dramatically since their first foray into sparring at the beginning of their week together.

A particularly rapid slash at his shoulder forced Arthur to back-step and snap his blade up and to the left to deflect her sword away forcefully, and then he reversed his movement by using the exact moment of impact to redirect force.

It wasn’t something most people could do, given the need for an almost instinctive level of combat intuition, but neither of them were ‘most people’.

The result saw Arthur use the ‘bounce’ from her xiphos to sweep his blade down and stop just shy of the left—her right—side of Circe’s elegant neck.

“Never overcommit against a more skilled opponent.” Arthur reminded her calmly.

“That’s absurd!” Circe objected while slapping away his blade with her own. “Nobody can just redirect momentum like you do. I’ve tried doing it twenty-six times, and I still can’t figure it out! You expect other people to be able to pull off that trick? As if!”

Arthur lowered his sword and smiled at her outburst. He’d learned to recognize her anger for what it was, with the amount of time they’d spent together, and he could see through the outward haughty indignance to the self-recrimination lurking beneath. Circe’s default was to obscure her feelings of failure or inadequacy behind pride and grouchiness.

It was a tactic he remembered well from his life as Arthur Zacaris.

In moments like their current one, he almost wanted to tell Circe everything.

Perhaps in time he would. First, though, he needed to understand his purpose.

Answers first, confessions after, and a steady ignoring of the guilt daily.