The Curse of Water

Chapter 4- A Natural Afternoon

Chapter Four – A Natural Afternoon

“One! Two! Block left!...Marcus!”

“Ow!” My blurry view of the ceiling is obstructed by Apollo's teasing grin over my head and the rolling crack of my back assures me that the loud thump was in fact the sound of my body hitting the dense linoleum floor of the training room.

“Hey slow poke, you're not losing focus by any chance, are ya?” A little pleasure fills me the moment   his hands clutch his knees while he pants the strain away, until I realize that I'm the one on the floor with my sword three feet from my reach and his still hasn't left its master. I accept his hand and bounce back onto my feet, trying to shake some energy back into myself, but my head feels like an exploding steam engine. I'm drenched in sweat, and even levelling my arm to the height of my shoulder feels like I'm trying to bench press an elephant. That would be an odd challenge to attempt. Focus! We've only been in here for two hours and, depending on the opponent, a fight can last up to a five, at which point even the judges are ready to give up and decide a winner based on technique. A game only ends if someone is too weak or too wounded to go on.  Also, depending on the schedule, you could have multiple opponents on one day. I'm screwed.

“I can do this, I can” I promise Apollo, but I can't fool myself into thinking it's not to will some strength into my sore muscles.

“You sure?”

“Yes Apollo, the Tournament is in two weeks, and I'm nowhere near ready!”

His mouth opens but he halts his response, which I'm sure would have had something to do with the fact that we have been training 3 years for this moment and if I'm not ready by now these two weeks won't make a difference, but I refuse to let that reality dictate my story. I run at him hard and loud, swinging the sword from his one side to the other without more of an agenda than one good blow. The screech of his rubber soles underscore an echoing hiss and the scrap of pride I gain pinches my cheek to a smile when he slides back to retreat.

“Good one!”

“Thanks,” I repeat my attack, counting my footwork, whilst I quickly try to pull a new strategy out of my behind, but by the time I get to three the metallic sting of a cut on my side forces me to pull back with an endless string of choice words.

“Stop thinking!” Apollo's sword doesn't allow me to rest, assaulting me in an unpredictable pattern from one direction to another but I do manage to make a couple decent blocks.

“Attack!”

The back of my hand slides across my forehead, directing the salty perspiration into my eyes from my brow. I blindly advance on him, but his game is merciless and my last remaining option is to block.

“Marcus! Attack!”

The metals proceed to clash against one an other, and the calescent, humid smell of blood and sweat clouds around us while Apollo extends the relentless pursuit of my defeat.

“Attack! You'll only tire yourself this way!”

One, two, stab! I count in my head, but he rolls my attempt off and the blood in my head rises to eruption.

“Again!”

“Stop telling me what to do!” I shout back and charge at him, achieving one clean stab, then within a second the shock dissolves and his offence returns. All of a sudden I am surrounded by a blinding white and gold light, swinging my sword like a madman. I pull back further and further, and after tripping over my own two feet I am once again on my back. Slowly I begin to make out the shapes around me as the bright circles fade away. Apollo's footsteps cease by my head, but I smack his unwelcome hand away in this instance.