En Garde, My Heart

En Garde

Midday light streams through the tall windows, casting long shadows on the polished floor of the training hall. There's a faint "metallic" scent in the air, reminiscent of old coins – a scent Prem has known ever since she was old enough to wield a saber.

Prem stands at the edge of the piste and watches as the newcomers are paired up for sparring. She's sixteen, but she already acts as if she were twice her age – a consequence of being the head coach's daughter and the Academy's most promising young athlete.

"Prem," Coach Art approaches her, "we have an odd number of kids today. Will you take on someone?"

Prem nods without objection. Requests like this are an integral part of the hierarchy: if you're good enough, you help keep things in order.

"Who should I pair up with?"

"I think Pat's without a partner. The tall girl in the corner."

Prem glances in the indicated direction. The girl Coach Art talks about is indeed half a head taller than most of the recruits.

"Yai Tharanisorn's younger sister," Coach Art explains, lowering his voice. "Her parents think she'll follow in his footsteps, but it seems to me that in this case, the apple has fallen too far from the tree."

Yai Tharanisorn? Prem wonders to herself, hearing the name of the famous sabre fencer.

"Pat, come here!" Coach Art shouts, interrupting Prem's further thoughts.

Pat flinches and moves toward them awkwardly and shyly, holding her saber as if it might bite her.

"This is Premsinee," Coach Art says. "She'll be your training partner today. Just basic footwork and simple attacks. Nothing complicated."

Pat looks up at Prem, then quickly looks away. "Okay," she whispers.

Coach Art leaves them alone.

Prem begins the training, assuming her usual leadership role. "How long have you been fencing?"

"Not very long. This is my first serious training session," Pat's voice is barely audible. "My brother... he fenced. He... he's really good. Everyone says I should give it a try because he did it, so maybe..."

Pat falls silent, staring at the saber. The weapon trembles slightly in her hand.

Prem notices the tremor.

"What are you afraid of?" Prem asks, watching Pat closely.

Surprised, Pat looks up at Prem again. "What?"

"You're holding that saber as if it's about to explode in your hand, as if it's dangerous," Prem says, tilting her head. "Well, it really can be. But... does that bother you?"

"I don't want to hurt anyone," Pat says quietly. "When I get nervous, I get clumsy. And if I'm clumsy with this..."

Pat lifts the saber slightly, then lowers it again.

So that's what it is, Prem thinks.

Pat lacks permission to take up space, to move decisively, to trust that her own body won't betray her or hurt someone else.

"All right," says Prem. "Let's try something. We won't practice attacks for now. Let's focus on the steps. Just copy my movements. Can you do that?"

Pat hesitates but then nods. She raises her saber – still looking uncertain, but not quite as scared.

Prem starts with the simplest thing – a step forward with evenly distributed weight. Pat repeats the movement – her tall frame looks awkward, but she's clearly trying her best. Her stride is uneven: one side feels heavier, and her legs drag strangely.