Juliette Coulombe (clearyourmind) wrote in emillion, @ 2013-10-15 08:24:00 |
|
|||
Sister Felicity’s open hand-to-hand sessions drew a mixed crowd. Sometimes, younger fighters who had recently ascended to class might show up, but generally, the cast majority of attendees were squires, from those who had enlisted mere months ago to those who were close to their class exams. Juliette took the advance hand to hand class twice a week, but she always attended these sessions, too, and had since their inception. Slowly, she had worked her way up to the Sister’s notice, copying and perfecting her stances until they were correct and fluid; now, she functioned as a sort of teaching assistant, set to younger, less experienced members of the group as an example of good form. She had a notion that Sister Felicity was teaching her to teach. The emotions brought forth by this thought were conflicting ones -- she did not mind the occupation in itself but… if things went as she very much hoped… She would always stop her thoughts there, remind herself that she was aiming high. If things didn’t, perhaps this might be her future. And so, this afternoon, she found herself across from Conan. Although they were nearly of an age, they did not train together as often as he and Storm did, and they had never quite grown to be friends, though they were cordial (or, at least, she always was; sometimes his jokes were decidedly unfunny). Today, however, she had been asked to partner Conan specifically, and so she bowed her head to him, as they had been taught, and settled back into a guard stance, waiting for him to do the same. She had not had a hand-to-hand lesson with Conan in years, not since she had announced her class aspirations and moved up to the intermediate group two years ago, and so she did not truly know his habits or movements. Better to wait, and allow him to come at her before deciding how to progress. Conan bowed back, his posture sloppy compared to hers. This squire was not well-versed in hand-to-hand fighting, so this was his attempt at trying. He imitated her guard stance at well, no better than a shadow as he adjusted his footing to steady himself. (The boy squire wanted to wave or greet her more informally, but this was not the time or place.) His heart pounded in his ears as he chased away the worries of impending failure. How embarrassing it would be if he lost, he thought. To be so terrible that Juliette, the star of all squires, had to be personally assigned to correct him was enough a blow to his ego. He could not lose. And still, he did not expect to win. There was something about close-range fighting that repelled his interested; yet he would fall back to it again and again, clinging onto the pipe dream of being as skilled a fighter as his father. He breathed (gulped) to calm his nerves. Impulse sunk in and he lunged into the first move, the first attack. His movements shifted between hesitant and forceful, unsure and unconfident; but his eyes at least were steady. He made sure to always keep her in sight. Juliette met his first attack with a block, as well as his second, letting him push her back a few steps before beginning a counteroffensive. She reminded herself that he was not Pyr, and that she was in the middle of the training yard where anyone might see her, and so her responses were, for the moment, fairly rote, standard first and second form combinations of blocks and counters. A good review of the fundamentals, especially because an opponent who seemed to choose his attacks somewhat at random was the perfect opportunity to review how forms flowed into each other, and how they might be used in a case of self defense outside of training. With this in mind, she sped her pace and attempted to move into the first series of combinations from one of the earliest hand-to-hand katas she could remember learning. Assuming he recalled it quickly enough, his responses should come automatically -- and begin a series of block and counter exchanges that would lead them halfway across the practice yard before the combination ended. His memory failed him. Though he recognized her movements as that fundamentals, he did not summon up the old lessons for his own use. Conan managed to keep up as she blocked his attacks but with each move, his body tensed. The struggle to remember the basics grew stronger as he misfocused his attention. Years spent practicing never amounted to mastering. His own hands as weapons felt like a foreign concept to him even though the squires were exposed to different technique. Hand-to-hand combat was clearly Juliette’s specialty, he thought before chasing his doubts away. His own flurry in response came as expected, his form mediocre, if not a little too late. She could see the tension growing in his posture -- she so often had to search for it in herself, in mirrors -- as his responses began to lag. His counterattack came just as she thought they might have lost the sequence altogether; she parried before bearing down as she began her next assault. She took a step forward, then another, pushing him back. A kick, followed by a pair of punches, then a sweep of her leg -- to be anticipated like choreography, and easily avoided -- but the strike connected with his ankles and sent him tumbling back. She was likely almost as surprised as he was, but recovered her rhythm quickly enough to follow him to the dirt and pin him under her weight, elbow above his throat. She waited a moment -- this constituted a victory, in a practice spar (again, best not consider Pyr and the eighteen ways he’d have tried to hurt or unseat her by now) -- before she sat back, then stood, offering her hand down to help the other squire up. “Again?” He took her hand, panting from the unsettlement. Conan shook his head, only to the dirt from his hair. As far as her offer went, his answer was yes and he nodded as soon as he collected his thoughts. Discouragement came with the refusal of second chances, like a cloud over his head of “can’ts” and “never’s.” But Juliette was not like his previous mentors, he reminded himself of this gratefully. If she offered a second fight, even if only because it was her duty, he’d take it. Each failure brought disinterest which only led to more struggle focusing. He would like to try though, perhaps to salvage what pride he had left. But he had little interest in practicing this. “Yeah, yeah,” he panted, still catching his breath. “Guess we’ll go again.” "Very well." They usually stopped at one spar in this class, but the first had ended so quickly that it seemed a waste not to use the time. She bowed her head, settled back into guard stance and waited for him to do the same. Once he was prepared, she began again, trying to slow her motions back to the initial pace at which the first spar had started. Once they had settled into the rhythm, she began the sequence again -- the same one that had led to the premature ending of the spar. She watched him for reactions, trying to see if he realized yet what she was doing. The leg sweep approached, and she executed the combination that had tripped him up, literally and metaphorically, last time, hoping that this time he would catch it and not go flying once again. Reflecting the guard stance back at her, Conan readied himself for the second round. His reflexes still weren’t as keen as hers but he tried to keep a better eye on her motions again. The same sequence fell into play and he caught the sweep in time to counter and prevent himself from losing again. Though he stumbled briefly in the process, he attempted to collect his usually flailing limbs enough to keep this second try lasting longer than their first. This second attempt seemed to go better now that they both had a better idea of what they were doing. She still pushed, but his answers, while not automatic by any means, were at the least present and more or less correct. This time, the spar did not end until most of the other pairs had completed theirs, right before time was called. Though she still found herself defeating him at the end, she did feel he had done considerably better, and that she had fulfilled whatever expectation Sister Felicity had placed on her, assuming she had understood correctly. So this time, when she offered him a hand up, it was with a small smile which was not unkind. "Good spar," she told him. It was true, in its way; the second compared to the first had been quite good. Besides, it was entirely possible that he might still defeat her with a sword, with how rarely she chose to use one. She supposed everyone had their own strengths, in the end. He smiled back, returning hers with his own enthusiastic grin. The session turned out to not be quite the failure as he had expected.Even if it was, he was glad that she at least stuck by him until the end as her assistant role had called of her. This still was more than his previous mentors had done for him, and that had Conan shelving this spar as one of the better ones of his times as a squire, ones that didn’t mark him as quite so hopeless. With more respect for her patience, and anyone’s patience enduring him for that matter, he shook her hand and muttered “Good spar” back to her, volume stifled by his exhaustion not bitterness. |