Queen's Light

The Spar

I fear my emotions shall one day string me up and dash off, dragging me along with them.

Of course, I say this as though they hadn't already done so.

Rhiannon tapped the end of her quill against the wood of her desk. She'd been writing letters for the majority of the day, seeing pages, speaking with local dignitaries, settling insignificant quarrels amongst the citizens. Another boring day, to be sure, if it weren't for what was planned for that evening.

I am usually not one for vulnerability. I will sit and listen to others' problems for as long as time allows, but when I become the speaker, I am immediately uncomfortable. Not to mention that I feel the vaguest sense of embarrassment when I see that person again.

Given so, I am not sure how I managed to pluck up the courage to finally ask Charles for that sparring match we'd both promised to after the ball.

They had spoken, she and the Seneschal, after her midnight meander through the castle halls following the Spring Ball. They'd learned a great many things about each other, and pledged to arrange a sparring match sometime in the future. As it happened, they both itched to wield a blade once again.

She dipped her quill into a nearby inkwell.

Am I truly so desperate?

Is this even desperation? Should I write it off so easily? Or should I pursue these stirrings within me and allow them to blossom into whatever they will become?

Perhaps she would drop by to see Knight Conri later.

The clock chimed the ending of another day of work for her, and she sealed the last letter she'd been writing and handed it off to a messenger, watching him race away.

She stood, already reaching for the pins in her hair. She planned to take dinner in her room, then head out after getting herself ready. It wouldn't be another half hour or so until Charles would meet her there, but she wanted to practice on her own for a bit, just for old times' sake.

Her sword had been polished that morning. She hadn't realized how much rust and grime could accumulate on a blade after only a few years' time. It now sat in its sheath, resting against the door frame. Her armor wasn't around, though it had been cleaned as well. She didn't think she would need it for a friendly spar.

The light outside had begun to fade, letting a golden gleam into her chambers. If she went out now, the guards wouldn't suspect she was doing any more than going for a stroll.

She stood, stretching her aching fingers, went into her wardrobe, and dressed. Simple leather would do the trick, and her well-worn blue cloak ought to barricade her from the autumn breeze for a bit. She belted her sword to her hip, concealing it with the cloak, and tied her hair back. Extinguishing the candle at her desk, she left, heading down into the practice grounds they used for the Tourney. As she had suspected, the guards hardly even glanced her way as she passed.

Straw-stuffed dummies mounted on wooden poles dotted the edges of the round space, along with archery targets along the back wall. Tossing her cloak to the side, she unsheathed her sword, relishing the way it shone against the evening sun.

Eyes closed, she drew the blade vertically across her torso, holding its tip towards the sky. Focusing on her breath, she moved, fluidly dancing through a few scattered pieces of what was once her standard warm-up routine. She had been taught incredibly well, and one thing her teacher had always emphasized was the connection between breath and movement. Muscles exhausted easily without flow of oxygen. The soldier who could fight through multiple battles was the one who was focused and breathing.