“SHIT!” I yell up at the cloudless sky, my frustration boiling over.
I roll to my side, plant my hands, and drag myself to my knees. I push myself to stand, trying not to show the pain I feel with each motion.
My opponent stands across from me, arms relaxed at her side. A simple wooden short sword is in her left hand, held loosely. The tip brushes her shin as she steps forward to engage me again.
My sword arm is tired, so I try to slip the first blow rather than block it. Her shoulder lands squarely in my solar plexus, the movement too fast for my tired mind to track. Except to recognize, again, that she’s much smaller than me. Her shoulder is only up to my breastbone.
I’m getting whooped by a child. A smiling child.
I gasp, falling to my knees. Desperately trying to catch my breath.
“That’s enough for now, Cynthia. You are picking up bad habits. You left yourself open there. Anyone else would have stabbed you through the chest easily. Noelle, take a break, drink some water.”
The instructor walks over to the girl, and they walk through the exchange in slow motion.
She must be a prodigy. Please tell me she is a prodigy. I have to breathe. When will the air come –
I gasp roughly. My throat feels shredded by the act of finally figuring out where the hell my lungs are.
Soon I am panting normally and drag myself over to the water bucket in the corner of the courtyard.
I am going to kill my dad when I get back. Good practice, my ass. I haven't landed a blow; all I’ve learned to do is take a beating.
I collapse on the ground up against the stone wall that marks the edge of the training yard. At least the view is nice. One day I'll buy a villa like this with the mountain of adventuring money I earn.
My legs are splayed out in front of me as I admire the view. I wonder what weapons I will be beaten with next.
Cynthia walks over and reaches a hand to help me up. I groan and take it; she is smiling at me with a knowing expression that doesn’t fit on the face of a twelve-year-old.
“It’s hardest when you’re just starting," she says gently. "You did well. Got up every time I knocked you down. That’s good. Papa likes you, says you have spirit. Come on, we are eating now.”
She walks away, leaving me standing alone in the courtyard. “Wait,” I ask after her, still panting. “Where did Papa go? Did he leave without us? Why would Papa do that?” The girl doesn't answer. I see her shake her head as she enters the house, her straight blonde hair flowing from side to side with the motion.
The food is fantastic, and there’s lots of it. Bread and butter, mashed potatoes with gravy, meat pies, more types of fruit than I've ever seen on one table, and then somewhere, there is probably a pile of green vegetables. Who cares? I dive for the bread first, then a scoop of gravy-laden potatoes. Then I dip the bread in the mashed potatoes. Oooh, that's the trick there.
“So, what do you think?” The instructor asks. I look up, surprised to see that everyone at the small table is looking at me; Papa, Mama, and Cynthia. My mouth is full, and I am halfway to stuffing more gravy-covered bread into my gob despite it being at capacity.
“Mwree?” I ask.
“Yes, you. Noelle.” A small smile. “You’ve tried the longsword, the staff, daggers, the bow, and the short sword. With and without shield. I’m sure you have some thoughts; I'd like to hear them." I think he spoke for so long, partly to allow me to swallow my bite. I almost did it by the time he finished.
“Well …” I start, buying myself a few more seconds to chew, and one big swallow later, I was ready to put together a complete sentence. "The shield was nice but also made the beating last longer. I guess that means I survived for longer too, though," I say hopefully. "That's probably a good thing."
Cynthia chuckles softly, and her father shakes his head.
“Are you taking this seriously?” he asks. His eyes bore deeply into mine. I look down and take a deep breath before responding.
“Sorry, I’m trying to. The staff felt good. It felt … whole? I could use both arms and coordinate my entire body to direct the weapon. I didn't get any good hits, but I thought I got a few good blocks. Until you hit my fingers. That sucked," I say, my eyes darting to Cynthia. She nods knowingly into her food, eyes wide, a sympathetic grimace on her face.
“That’s good, often what fits best is what feels best. Now, focus on the food, after lunch will be dagger practice.” He looks at his wife and asks about the orchard. Apparently, all the fruit on the table was grown on the property. It’s interesting, but I can’t help but focus on the dread I feel, and the impending beat down.
‘One day of training won’t make you a fighter, but at least you’ll know which end is the pointy one.’ When I get home, I’m going to show him the pointy side of a fucking fork. Right through the forearm, till I scrape bone. Woah, that’s dark, Noelle. Chill girl.
It was time to stand far too soon, and my legs were not having it. My lower back screamed alongside it, and a dozen other smaller complaints from seemingly everywhere. I swear to the gods, my EYELIDS hurt. They really do, probably from all the sand.
"The soreness will fade once you get moving. Warm up with a few laps." He says casually, as though we are talking about the weather. “I’ll let you know when to stop.” And thus, the torture continues.
----------------------------------------
My feet hit the cobblestone roughly. Each step sends jarring pain up my weak legs. But I don't have the strength to set them down nicely and carefully. No, so I grimace and trudge on. One would think uphill is worse than downhill, but I challenge that person to test their theory. Push yourself hard, run up and down stairs, squat with sandbags on your shoulders, and carry water up a hill. Then, wait a few hours and walk downhill for a mile. See? You’re a fucking idiot.
I enter my home and am greeted first thing by my excited father.
“I’ve got a gift for— fuck, did you roll down the hill the whole way home?” He grabs my shoulder and begins to turn me to see the back. I let him turn me and use that motion to drive my elbow straight into his sternum with all my remaining strength. I am entirely too familiar with the sternal strike after today and feel a strange sense of release when I hear his breath leave him in a gust.
I have been trying as hard as I can to land a single blow ALL DAY, but I couldn’t do it. Others would say something like, "I didn't really want to hit a child." I wanted to KILL a child today, couldn't do it though. No matter how hard I tried and how dirty I fought.
I watch my dad grab his chest and look at me with wild eyes. I raise both fists above my head in a painful celebration. "FINALLY. Fuck! You're lucky I don't have a fork." My shoulders then inform me that they would very much like it if I could leave my arms by my sides for a few days. Thank you very much.
I fall into a cushy chair and look around. Spotting a bundle on the table that seems suspiciously new.
“Did you say something about a gift?” I ask suddenly, leaning forward to stand. "Nope," I say hoarsely as the motion puts me in too much pain. "We can look at it when you're ready," I say, feeling magnanimous.
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“Fuck Noelle.” He wheezes. “What the hell?”
“Feel good? Do you feel better at fighting now? Do you have any idea how many times I've been stuck in that exact spot today? You would need more than two hands to count it. What kind of sociopaths did you leave me with? All your talk about safety, they spent all day trying to KILL me." I say self-righteous. "That was barely a taste. And I love you, Dad, but that felt great for me. I spent all day throwing attacks at a phantom. My strikes never even mussed her hair. Can we talk about the gifts, though? I feel like you keep trying to change the subject.”
“I think we should wait until you are feeling a little less bloodthirsty and until I can get a full breath.” He pants and sits down beside me.
We sit together in pained silence for a little.
"Sorry," I whisper, "I was just mad."
“S’okay,” he says. “Was it really that bad?”
“It was bad. Mostly the morning sucked. You're going to have to help me get off the toilet tonight."
"Hah," he barks. "Wouldn't be the first time"
“After lunch sucked too, but at least I got to land a few blows on the mannequin. The dagger training was much more practical. I learned a bit. How was your day?”
"It's always nice and calm when you're gone, demon child."
“Really?”
“Yeah, no. I mean, it was calm, yes. But, too calm. It’s going to be quiet around here without you.” I scootch over a little and lean my head against his shoulder. Taking in his scent, and the smell of our home, the lingering aroma of his lunch mixed with his clean clothes.
“Maybe you can invite Laney over and make some noise?” I ask, teasing him to lighten the mood.
“Har har,” he says. “you know, you had a visitor while you were gone. That boy from the other day. Leo?”
"No," I say. "You're lying." He is trying to get me back for my hilarious Laney joke.
“No, he did,” he holds up his right hand like he is swearing to the gods. "He asked about you, when you would be back. I told him about your trip and in return he told me a saucy rumor going around the academy.”
“Ooo, what’s the rumor?” I ask, trying to get off the topic of cute boys. Did I say cute?
“Apparently, some young noble went to the formal in a very strange outfit. He’s got a nickname now …” he says.
“HAHA, No?! Ichor? The poor kid! What’s the nickname.”
"It's not terribly clever," my dad says, hedging.
“The best ones are simple. What is it?"
“Syphilis Boy. Because of the colors, I guess …”
I barely hear the second part. Everything after ‘syphilis boy’ is just a hum. I cannot stop laughing; my belly aches from it. I roll from side to side on the couch, trying to catch my breath.
“Do you feel no guilt?!” he asks, feigning incredulity. “you did that!”
"He deserved it," I say after catching my breath and actively purging any guilt from my soul. "He said bad things about us, and now people are saying bad things about him. I think that's fair."
"Okay, well, it's a bad habit to get into, making enemies of powerful people.”
“Yeah? What’s syphilis boy going to do to me?!” I start laughing again.
He chuckles ruefully. And we sit with that for a moment longer.
"Okay, that's enough chit-chat. Give me my presents," I say, changing the subject.
He grunts and walks over to the bundle on our table.
“Okay, eyes closed. Arms out.” He tells me. I smile and wiggle, the excitement helping me forget about my various aches.
He places a heavy, straight item on my palms. This is the dagger, it's weight surprisingly like the practice dagger I was using with Cynthia earlier today.
“Okay, you can open them.” He says.
It’s beautiful. The dagger is in a sheath of dark brown leather. The sheath widens slightly at the top so that the hand guard, a flat disk, slides perfectly into it, securing it snugly. The steel pommel is flat and gray, the handle is wrapped in fine brown leather that’s soft to the touch. I draw the weapon. It takes some force initially to get the guard out, then it comes out smooth.
The steel of the blade is gray and polished to a subtle shine. There are small characters winding up the sides in three lines of script that end near the sharp tip. Its weight feels better in my hand than the crude training daggers from Godfrey’s shop. I look up to my dad.
“This is mine?” I ask. He nods, a knowing smile on his face.
“It’s all yours. It is the most important thing you own. You will need to practice drawing it from all sorts of angles, and you need to always keep it near you, especially when you sleep or use the bathroom or bathe." He is going into concerned parenting mode. I can hear it.
"Help me up." I reach out with my left, and he pulls me to my feet.
I find my stance, ignoring my body's protestations, and stab straight, then up, and then I step back quickly.
“Okay," my dad says, frowning but nodding his head. "Good! Quick engagements are the way to go. Get in, get out. The dagger is no good for a protracted battle.” I nod, I remember hearing similar advice a few hours ago from Instructor Papa.
“What are the symbols for?” I hold it out towards him so he can get a good look. Each string of characters is similar in shape and form, but the individual runes are different.
“Godfrey can access arcane mana,” my dad replies. “He can enchant using an arcane script. This is enchanted with hardness, sharpness, and self-repair. All minor, but they should keep the weapon intact for a lifetime.” He takes the dagger from me and traces a finger across a line of the winding script. "Appraise it." He says, handing it back.
Merchant’s Companion (Uncommon) – A sturdy dagger enchanted by an Arcane Smith with a single purpose; Endure.
“Arcane Smith …” I say absently as I read the description.
“It’s quite rare.” My dad responds. “Arcane mana is essentially magical potential energy. It is how we store our mana in our core, pure, unshaped potential. Then, it is transformed by our class; the skills are like recipes that the arcane mana can follow. So, if you have a Skill that allows you to throw fire from your hands, what's really happening is the arcane mana from your core traveling through your channels until it is transformed into fire mana. To enchant, you need to be able to manipulate that fundamental source energy.”
“So Godfrey’s class, it’s rare?”
"Yes, it is designated (rare) by the system, and it's hard to find. It's one of the reasons he has so many apprentices. It gives him more time to enchant if he has many people producing the weapons. And the demand is there.”
I sheathe the dagger. Its beauty and function are more than I expected when I left Godfrey's shop. I wish I had the chance to thank the man. He’s crafted something unique just for me.
My father walks back to the bundle and pulls out a leather bracer, whose dark color matches the sheath perfectly.
“You ready to see the full picture?”
A few minutes later, I'm standing in front of one of our windows. It is dark out now, and this is the closest thing we have to a mirror in our home. I can see my reflection in full.
I hardly recognize myself. The armor fits as if it were made for me, which, it was. The leather boots rise to the bottom of my knee, they overlap with the armored pants and clip into place. A brown belt goes around my waist and the chest piece is more like a stiff leather shirt. There are straps across my chest that hold the pauldrons tight to my shoulders. The last thing I put on is the leather gloves, which reach up to fit over my sleeves.
I look like a warrior. And when I pull the hood up over my hair, I look like a rogue. I stretch my arms out in front of me, then over my head. I kick and punch and the armor moves with me comfortably. I look over to my dad, feeling invincible.
He looks scared. I see it for a moment. Then it is gone, covered with a quick smile. But the tension is still written on his face.
My excitement is tempered by his worry.
"Don't worry, Dad, it's just an extra layer of protection. My first move will be to run for help if anything goes wrong. I promise."
“Good, and don’t get licensed either, okay?” he asks. “That was part of the deal.”
“I thought I was getting my class from… what’s her name again?”
“Stella. She doesn't work with the guild anymore. They will know where her training grounds are, though. The guild will be able to point you in the right direction."
“Okay, why don’t you want me to get licensed?”
“I know that’s the path you’re on. I want to go with you and watch you take your test. Celebrate with you. We can even go on some quests together if you want?" He says the last part tentatively.
“That would be awesome!” I exclaim, surprised. "But I thought you don't like adventurers. I didn’t think you’d ever pick up a weapon again.”
“If that’s where you’re going, I'd like to dip my foot in again, too. I wouldn't have to be your guardian or anything. I still have the shop. But it would be nice to do it with you sometimes.” He smiles shyly.
I hug him then. "I'm going to miss you, Dad."
“I’m going to miss you, my little Star.”
We play Tlack quietly, knowing that in the morning, I will be leaving for the Capital. After our first game, I set up the board again, and we play a second. Neither one of us is ready for tomorrow to come. But soon, our bodies begin to betray us. Our yawns become more frequent, and we shift more in our chairs, trying to get comfortable. When the second game ends, my dad stands from his chair.
Come, let’s get you to bed. He walks with me to my room, and I begin to take off the armor. It was comfortable enough that I was happy to leave it on throughout our game. That’s good.
“Sleep in it,” he says, seeing me take off the gloves. "You can take off the gloves when you sleep. But you need to get used to sleeping in your armor. Here’s your dagger.”
I didn't realize I had left it at the table. My dad doesn’t mention that I left it behind.
“This needs to stay with you, always. So tonight, we put it on the bedside table.” He places it there gently, still in its sheath. “In the morning, when I wake you, your first move should be to grab the dagger. Even if you wake up naturally with the sunlight, you should reach for your dagger first. It is a habit that you need to ingrain.” I nod and fall into bed, wiggling to get under the covers.
"Goodnight, I'll see you in the morning."
"Goodnight, Dad." He closes the door.
"Dad!" it creaks back open a little. "Thank you for everything. I promise I'll make you proud."
I can hear the tired smile in his voice as he replies, “I’ve always been proud of you, Noelle. Sleep tight. Tomorrow’s a big day. I love you, kid.”
The door creaks closed, and my sleepless night begins. I feel equal parts excitement and worry. I focus on the excitement, but that keeps me up well into the night. Before I know it, there is a knock on my door.