Sword Training

The fire had come back in his dreams.

Not the fire that consumed wood and fabric to ash, but the fire that let out shrieking wind with tears' whispers formed out of suffering, walls smeared with rot and shaking with a thousand unspoken conclusions.

He is running. He is always running. But his legs were rigid, his bones iron casts. The hall before him still stretched ahead, darker, noisier. With every stride, the shadows advanced upon him, clawing the smoke like fingers.

And then the eyes opened.

Those eyes.

Slipping out through wall of smoke.

Not angry, not begging, but just watching.

He leapt up, shrieking.

Rion stirred, chest pounding, his throat scalded with a scream that had never left his mouth. His sheets were crumpled on him, damp. The warm, golden glow of the pulsed softly against the stone wall. Projecting Image of light, warmth, and consistency.

His room was vacant, clean and tidy.

It was just a dream.

Nothing, but a dream.

However, the silence was unnatural. It was too neat. Such as a theatre where safety is painted. He rubbed his face with trembling hands.

His shirt back was damp, where the sweat drops had remained. He made faces at every brush of cloth against the skin as though cotton were also feel painful too.

He headed towards the dining hall, although he did not need eating. He was not hungry, but since sitting around hurt more.

The corridor rang with din. Colliding knives and forks, laughter, footsteps on stone. Spotted above, twirling lanterns drawing sweeping arcs, swimming in golden light sliding tables. A sanctuary of comfort.

He sat at the edge of a long table, alone, in hurly burly that did not belong to him. On his tray a hot egg roll, delicate shavings of fruit, some vegetable, and a bowl of scalding broth that steamed exactly in the air.

It was simple. He lifted the spoon and pick a piece of meat. The steam curled nicely, rising up to his face. Then something else formed.

Not spice. Smoke, damp stone, and meat. Rion gagged then he coughed. The spoon crashed in the tray and he shoved aside the dish, beating his fist against his chest. Water smarted in his eyes. The odor was lost, but recollection seared charred flesh and carrion sweetness, those broken faces twisted past human, mouths too wide, eyes milky with greasy rot.

He breathed through his mouth. In and out slowly. They are not here and you are not there.

His hand trembled as he hunted for the vegetable instead. Dry, safe, and comfortable with his mind. He chewing it begrudingly as to himself it might be a forgery too. A long time elapsed before he swallowed.

Later in the morning, at random and reluctant to stay still, he strolled out to the training fields. Movement was something and something was superior to nothing.

The academy grounds went on for miles in every direction beneath the sky, bordered by ancient stone and pulsing runes. Sparring rings covered the lawn. Some for hand to hand combat, some smoldering with elemental runes. Students swept across in measured steps, clusters of them sparring, mages unleashing their focused magic into the air. Shouting erupted, metal rang, dust swirled with each strike and impact.

Rion watched from next to a row of weapons. The weapons shone in the sunlight. After some thought he picked up one of the practice swords. Blunt edged, but heavier than he expected. Cold metal with leather wrapped wood handle worn smooth from so many hands.

His fingertips came alive with feeling. He juggled the sword hand to hand. Clumsy and unnatural. But still, he entered an empty spot and began practicing clumsily.

Too rigid and too sluggish. A swoop brought metallicity on the floor to life. Another whoshed a few inches away from one of the hovering lanterns above.

He practiced once more.

"Are you attempting to spar with air or to hit some invisible ghost?"

Rion sprang up and turned around.

A boy that looked to be two years older than him. Green eye flashes interested laughter at him. His skin are brown with copper curls fell down from a careless knot at the back of his head. His jacket sleeves rolled way up on his elbow, showing forearms stippled short, silvery fur.

And his sharp, pointed ears ever so slightly quivering like a cat's marked him as a beast mage.

"You're fighting like you're digging potatoes," the boy said, unflinching face.

Rion's own face flushed. "I didn't need help."

"You didn't," the boy advanced. "But the sword did. It's deserve better."

Rion clenched his teeth. His fist around the hilt tightened. The boy glance at him for an instant. Then casually say, "let me guess, you have no experience, right?"

"None."

"Great." The boy sat down in the circle. "Leon. Beast Mage and no, I won't bite."

"Rion."

Leon showed him a small tooth. "Alright, Rion. Lesson one, your stance is awful."

Rion showed him an eyebrow.

Leon didn't mind. "Feet here, not so wide. You're not wrestling a bear."

He pushed Rion's boots ahead with his own, shoving them into place. "Now loosen your grip. You're choking it."

Rion shifted begrudgingly. His body was woozy and awkward, as if he had forgotten how move it. Leon took the sword from his grip and performed once. Smooth, fluid. The sword hissed through the air.

"Like this. The sword doesn't want to be forced. It wants to follow."

Rion mimicked the movement. Stiff and awkward. But incredibly, it was working.

"Better," Leon told him. "Do it again."

They went on. Leon teaching method is not cruel, but he also not too gentle either. He adapted his disadvantage where he could, moved a foot over, planted an elbow solid, snarled a rough "Stop choking it!" when Rion bore down on him the twentieth time.

Rion's arms began to hurt. Sweating, a mound of sweat at the back of his neck. Stuck to his shirt.

However, it was effective. It was not easy, no, because it was exactly understandable. It gave his body a pattern to hang onto, something his body was still able to hold onto even when his head couldn't.

There was no need to think it out. All there was was the weight of the sword, the rhythm, and the breath in his lungs.

Thirty minutes passed or maybe more. Eventually, Rion lowered the blade and exhaled hard.

Leon tossed him a canteen. "Don't die yet. You're just getting started."

Rion gulped deep. Water was running down his chin, but he did not mind it. He growled, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He said, "Thanks."

Leon shrugged. "You still suck though."

Rion burst out laughing at that. He then say, "At least there are some improvement right?"

"Well, one is higher than zero, so you can say you did improve, no matter how little that improvement is."

Rion lurched there awhile, wind sweeping through his hair who is still wet, pain searing his muscles, and his feel like burning. He still had ghosts on the borders of his mind, but they were not talking.

And he stayed there.