Training of the Sword

"Again," Veronica commanded.

Hubert heeded, swinging his sword downward to the practice dummy of straws that stood on the yard. Wounded, it was and its body, splintered from all the previous wounds inflicted on it.

"Again," her voice echoed through the night's wind once again.

Hubert followed through on her order.

"Go on," she said as she took a breath from her smoking pipe, refilled with fresh tobacco. 

The night was cold, and it was lonely. The curfew of the students had proven not to be a problem for Hubert. He and her, left alone, for the purpose of training.

"Under the night's sky, when no one is watching, train you," she muttered what he said earlier, under her breath, off her lips, half mocking. Her midnight blue dress, modest but eye-catching, beautiful, showing off all her curves.

"..." Hubert, unminded by the comment, continued what he was doing.

"Stop!" until she halted what he was doing.

He turned around, awaiting further instructions.

"I've seen your flaws," she said as the pipe rested on her lips.

"What is it, hall master?" Hubert asked, his thirst of power unquenched, his desire for knowledge unfulfilled since the time he was admitted into the academy.

She stepped forward, closing the gap between her and Hubert.

"Strength," a word came from her mouth, one that confused him.

"Strength? I lack strength?" Hubert asked.

She chuckled as her delicate fingers were placed on the smoking pipe.

"No, you lack control of your strength," 

"Control…?" Hubert wondered.

"Compared to the first few strikes you did when I first apprehended you stealin- ehm, borrowing my sword, it was controlled and precise," she explained, trudging forward, heels against the hard ground of the yard.

She slid her finger across one of the strikes, deep and uncontrolled, like a savage claw of an animal.

"But the more you swing, the harder you swing," she said, pulling back her finger.

"Isn't a powerful strike all that matters?" Hubert asked, his grips loosened of his sword, his eyes straight, gleaming of the moon, a mix of confusion and hope mingling within.

She chuckled upon his words.

"You treat a sword like it's a shovel," she said. Tilting her pipe to the side, the tobacco falling down from within its wall, like a bunch of burnt ashes, one that had sat for too long in.

Then she placed it on the ground.

Her delicate fingers ran through her curvy waist, on her left side, a sword hung, its handle wrapped by a scaly leather, attached directly to her dress. Its scabbard made of fine leather, shrieking as she pulled the sword from its abode.

Straight upward, the sword faced, pointing to the moon. Its mental glinting of cold light, its edges sharp, and its guard made of gold. Its length was almost Hubert's entire leg, a normal height for an adult man.

Hubert's eyes were nailed at it, an impressive sword, one he had never seen. Even the most high sword carried by Gregorius Trilly was nowhere near Veronica's.

"Impressive, isn't it?" her eyes too were nailed at it, enjoying the masterpiece she wielded.

"Yes…" Hubert's mouth gapped, his words dragging, fascinated. The metal as if calling him.

Her eyes drifted to Hubert, then chucked as she turned toward the dummy. Dropping into her stance, a low stance, her left foot amazingly placed far front, her right knee bent so much Hubert worried about her balance.

Her sword, wielded by only one hand, its curve facing upward, longed for action.

Swoosh!

Then she struck. Flutter of her midnight blue dress flying up the sky by the shockwave. 

The sword made its mark. Shallow but precise, its cut was clear, leaving not a single straw peeking out. The dummy barely moved, unchanged from its position before the cut.

Hubert's eyes widened, a skill of a master was showcased in front of him.

"How…?" he asked, the wind still blowing.

Her grin appeared, yet none of her words came.

Instead, she dropped into the same stance. Readying for another go at the practice dummy.

Hubert heart anticipated, its beat fastening. His eyes gleaming with excitement, curious of the outcome now. A part of his mind imagined if it was him that had the amount of mastery of the way of the sword.

Then the air settled from the previous strike.

Swoosh!

Woosh!

The dummy's head flew through the air, blocking the moonlight for a moment, its support beam still embedded within the fibers of straws. The head hadn't landed and the dummy had yet to stop vibrating, but her sword was already laid to rest in its scabbard.

"See?" she turned, bragging, picking up her pipe.

"..." Hubert's eyes were still wide open.

"Both attacks had the same amount of strength. But one caused a shallow mark in its body, while the other ravaged the entirety of its head with the same precision as the other," her words flew as she began filling the pipe with a pack of tobacco.

"Th-that is what I can do if I master the sword?" Hubert asked, clenching his sword once again.

She smiled as she placed the pipe on her lips.

"If you mastered the sword, then you would be able to do much more. Something only the highest of ranks could do, maybe… take the royal knights' captain as an example," she told.

Hubert almost bit his lips, excitement mingled with a weird sense of doom in him. His clench over the sword got tighter than ever. The path was laid in front of him, a path full of nails of struggles and shards of glass of effort.

"Now, what are you slacking for? The night's still young," she ushered.

And he walked on that path.

The night was indeed young. That day, the owls that hunted and the morning birds that sang watched the same spectacle.

And the next night was the same, and the next was also the same as well, and the next too.

Each slash he did was more controlled than the previous one. Each thrust he lunged forward more precisely than its predecessor. Each stance he took was better than the form before.

Hubert was going. His mastery of sword was meager, its strikes uncontrolled, lame and weak. That changed into a strike that was filled with precision, aim and control. Now, it was as if the sword was like a horse, with its reins in his hand.

Through all those nights, she guided and told and taught, a smile that grew wider as he progressed.

"Good," echoed as she watched one of his slash.

"Ha… ha… ha…" gasps came.

"You're getting better," she praised.

"Yes, but… I feel… tired," he replied.

She nodded.

He got better, that's for sure, and neither did his physique deteriorated. 

But each strike was so calculated and well thought of that his mind began to tire. And each attack was precise and aimed so that his wrist bulged red. And each strike was controlled by all means, his balance, control and weight, that every joint of his body felt pressed and his muscles felt pulled.

"Ugh," he groaned, almost falling to the ground as he lost his balance a split moment there. His sight was blurry, also.

But there, he felt the hand catching him, holding up his body by the back. The hand felt warm.

And there, he was greeted by her seductive smile, coming from red and blushed lips. And eyes like a snake that felt as if it was staring into him while at the same time, as if yearning for him.

Though that was all in his mind.

"You should rest," she said, bringing him up.

"Thank you," he answered.

Then he left the place. He slept through the day, as usual for these past few days.

Then the night came again, bringing with it, the new moon of the day, third quarter, as scholars called it. Soon, he made his way to the yard, filled with the dummies he had practiced with, assembled in a checkered pattern.

"First hall ma-," he was about to greet, enjoyfully, but was interrupted by the greetings of another.

"Hubert,"

His gaze turned to a sword sharper than the one Veronica wielded.

"Ivanna," he greeted back.

She stood near the bench, overlooking the yard. Her thick fur coats protecting her from the cold wind.

"How are you doing…?" she asked, hesitating a bit. The bags under her eyelids were deeper than ever, and her gaze was almost blank. Though a certain hope was painted clearly in her eyes.

"I'm… fine," he hesitated.

"That's good," her warm smile persisted though her lip was dry.

Cough.

Her cough followed, echoing through the night's sky.

Cough.

Then another.

Cough.

Each felt like torture to his ear.

He opened his mouth, his words as if trapped, blocked by layers of doors, each with a different lock. Fear, guilt, worry, and thoughts.

"A-are you… fine? Ivanna?" he prevailed.

"I-I'm fine, thank you, Hubert," she smiled.

"You should have rested if you're sick. The night's wind does you no good for your health," Hubert said, almost commanding.

But Ivanna shrugged it off.

"I know, bu-but…"