Paths of Green and Gold

Thoris - training

Adrian thought for a while and grinned.  

"As long as it's not Jan's garden," he said cheerfully. "I think the best solution would be to use one of the rooms here, downstairs. Of course, if you don't mind a bit of dust..."

Thorn shook his head and picked up his sword and backpack.

The young man nodded and, leaving the storage, led the warrior down the cool corridor. He opened another door. The room was more spacious and higher than the last one - the vaulted ceiling was well lit by the semicircular windows. The cool air of the basement was mixed with the summer warmth. There was a long wooden bench against one of the walls.

"Not many employees come downstairs," Adrian explained. "I think nobody will disturb you here."

"Thank you, sir."

The young man smiled, content.

"I will come to pick you up before they start wondering where you disappeared," he bowed slightly and left.

Thorn stayed at the door for a while longer, looking at the empty room. He couldn't believe that finally, he was alone, nothing disturbing the silence around him, and there was nobody lurking nearby, ready to share their opinions on every possible topic.   

[Finally...  A moment of peace...]

He walked up to the bench and placed the sword on it. Sitting down, he opened his backpack and for a while stared at its contents. Finally, he started taking out various things one by one, checking their condition - some rolled up papers bound with a ribbon, writing and drawing utensils, a pile of tattered drawings, some wrinkled clothes, water flask, pouch, and a few small items carefully wrapped in fabric.

He looked at the last package for a long while. Removing the fabric, he revealed a beautiful green box embroidered with the same spiky vine pattern that covered his arms and chest. Gently, as if afraid that one careless movement could destroy the object, he opened the box. The sunlight danced on the green stones and the silver binding them together. He closed his eyes.  

[Why do I assume She will want to see me at all? Many things could change since our last meeting... Or maybe...] 

He scolded himself for such thoughts. There was no meaning in getting into the future that might never come, or delve in dreams that would never come true.

He closed the box, wrapped it again, and put it back into the backpack together with most other things. He had to focus on the present moment. Otherwise, he would just follow another path into the depths of madness he was defending himself against. His gaze stopped on the sword.

[Present moment... Every moment...]

The water flask and two small packages remained on the bench. He took out 3 flat stones from one of them, and a bottle of a thick golden liquid from the other. He reached for the sword and slowly unsheathed the blade. The sunlight gleamed on the steel. The weapon was old, but at first glance its condition was excellent. He placed the sword gently on the bench and, after examining the blade, poured some water on one of the stones, knelt on the floor and started polishing the metal. He was working for a long while, only pausing to moisten the stone again. He was completely focused on his task. Finally, he put the stone away and wiped the blade with some fabric. Only then did he feel the dull pain in his right forearm. He opened and closed his fist a few times.

[It looks like I have a lot of work to do... I've been lazying around for too long...]

He took the smoothest of the three stones, poured some water on it, and returned to work. He clenched his teeth as the pain gradually got worse, but he didn't stop. When he was finally satisfied with the result he wiped the blade, oiled it, and then put all the tools back. Grabbing the weapon in his right hand he walked to the middle of the room and raised the long sword horizontally in his extended arm. He clenched his teeth again, when the muscles tensed painfully, unable to steady the long blade.  

[It's going to be a long way back...]

He lowered the sword, gripped it with both hands, and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he started a murderous dance with imaginary opponents. His movements were incredibly light, considering the size of the weapon he was wielding, but it was clear where the pain in his forearm prevailed over his determination. He didn't give up, though, and, clenching his teeth, continued the training. His fighting style was aggressive - in the intricate pattern of steps and attacks, there wasn't much space left for parrying or dodging.

In the silence of the basement, the only sounds were the rustling of bare feet on the floor and the hiss of the blade cutting the air. Although his body was soon covered with a thin film of sweat, his face showed perfect concentration.

[At that time he was also forced to perform perfectly measured movements. The main difference was that instead of the sword hilt, his hands were holding a soft body wrapped in delicate fabric. And he was even more focused - it was so strange to move in unison with a partner instead of an opponent.

When he made a mistake, she laughed and repeated her instructions. And when he performed the steps correctly, his reward was the gleam of approval in her eyes.] 

The sword dropped lower as his feet found the rhythm: right foot forward, left foot sideways, right foot back...

He stopped and shook his head.

["One... two... three... You can't tell me it's more difficult than swinging that dreadful weapon of yours!”

When she laughed, she squinted, so that only a gleam of emeralds was visible from under her long eyelashes. She threw her head back, but even then she never lost her alertness. She was like a wild animal - enrapturing, surprising, but impossible to subdue.]

The lean muscular body returned to its original harmony - to a melody with the ever-changing rhythm making it almost impossible to predict the next blow. The sword hissed in the air, cutting off invisible limbs, as his feet moved even faster on the stone floor.

He closed his eyes as if vision was meaningless in a fight.

He didn't feel the pain in his wrist anymore - the arm and sword became one lethal tool, the precision of which didn't come from the muscles but from the depth of his existence.  

["If you do it again, I'll take a stick and beat you with it until you beg for mercy!" although her words were supposed to be a threat, her eyes were laughing.

The plan was simple. So simple that it was almost impossible…

He realized why she agreed to follow it, although he didn't think of himself as an appropriate "support".

"Once more. And this time do it right..."]

Closing his eyes made it easier for him to see the fight. His imagination gave life to non-existent opponents, showing their movements and attacks. He could see cut limbs and falling bodies, he could hear screams of pain and anger, he could smell the blood being shed. The images were interlaced with the memories of the lessons with his beautiful strict Mentor - lessons so different, and yet so similar to what he was training every single day.

[When we fought side by side I never made such shameful mistakes. Although She was next to me, I was only focused on killing our opponents to keep Her safe, out of harm's way... Why then during those lessons, Her closeness was like a drug so strong I couldn't even repeat the simplest steps?]

At first, the wave of memories surprised him, but now he consciously summoned more, raising the bar for himself. He had to overcome his weaknesses. He didn't want to fail Her ever again...

["And this time do it right...."]

The smell of blood mingled with the delicate scent of Her perfume, melodic laughter drowned the gruesome sounds of the fight, the swaying fabric of the dress blurred the view of the battlefield. He upped the pace even more. The sword sang, cutting the air, the fast steps raised a wave of dust from the floor. He forgot about the pain and exhaustion.

["Will I ever be able to follow Her lead again?"

"You already chose your Mistress."

"What if I could choose again...? 

"Blasphemy!"]

Dizziness overwhelmed him. He stumbled as his weapon wavered and missed its target. He saw the enemy's blade piercing his flesh. A burst of pain in his chest made him fall to his knees. With the last thread of will, he stopped the blade from hitting the floor and gently placed it down. He leaned on his hands breathing heavily. His right arm was completely stiff. The exhaustion, which he tried to so desperately push away, attacked with double force. Black and red spots danced in front of his eyes.

He pressed his left hand to the bandage on his chest, waiting for the pain to subside.

After a while, when his heart returned to a calmer rhythm and his breath evened, he dared to stand up. He picked up his sword and shakily walked to the bench. He sheathed the blade and sat down, wiping the sweat from his face. The right forearm returned to life in the explosion of pain, but it didn't matter. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. He looked as if he was just resting. His calm face and relaxed muscles didn't betray the dangerous thoughts running through his head.   

["I could rebel... There is always some choice..."

"Don't be ridiculous!"

"One can always turn back from the chosen path..."

"Really? And what is it you'd like to turn back to?"

"..."]

His inward laughter had a bitter taste.  

[So it's weakness after all...?]

He opened his eyes and took out another small package from the backpack - two small bottles and a few needles of various sizes. He looked through the pile of drawings and placed one of them next to him. Having selected the needle, he wiped it with a piece of bandage soaked in the alcohol from one of the small bottles. He shifted to have the best possible lighting. Staring at the tangled spiky vines on the inner side of his left forearm he nodded. He wiped the skin with the wet bandage, and ignoring the pain, started making another pattern between the vines. This time, it wasn't a plant...

Only a few droplets of blood appeared on his skin, when someone knocked on the door.