“Is that all you’ve got, Captain?” She calls out.
Orthia takes her gaze off her opponent first to look at Nargol, but then those eyes land on me. There is no telling if the flush on her face is from exertion or from the wink I can’t resist teasing her with. The fingers on my left hand flex as she deflects another attack from Lagulla. Her eyes move back to her opponents before she answers the taunt.
“Nargol, if you want to come and fight me, you know where the swords are, and just like last time, you’ll end up flat on your ass.”
“Can anyone challenge you?” I ask.
“Crew, did you hear something?” Orthia shouts, still parrying every attack Lagulla tries.
“No, captain,” is the resounding answer of the room, and it takes everything in me to hold back from rolling my eyes. We are back to this rank thing again.
Even though she’s hellbent on the title, Orthia switches from toying with Lagulla to compounding attack after attack until the sword is out of her hand and her snakes are raised in defeat. There is a resounding cheer for the gorgon as she walks over to a small group of women who toss her a bottle of water.
It’s now or never to show her what I’ve got.
I scan the wall of weapons as I weave through the small crowd. The collection is varied enough; I’m certain a sword will resemble a foil I’ve used before. A sabre type one catches my eye, but it’s definitely longer than I am used to and doesn’t have a pistol handle. The guard is a polished brass colour with filigree engravings, the handle is moulded for someone who isn’t me and my blistered right hand.
It’s going to have to do. Even with a smelly, perfectly healed hand, I’m shit left-handed. As long as I don’t mutilate myself or the soulmate I am trying to impress, this should all be fine. It’s definitely sharp, though. And there are no masks or lame for extra protection. It’s time to prove to Orthia that I am more than meets the eye.
“Captain,” I sing, turning around to see everyone has their eyes on me. Orthia stands in the centre, a scowl on her face either at my tone or simply because I am challenging her. “I’d like to have a go.”
“This isn’t playtime, Del,” Saphielle cautions. The tall, elven woman steps towards me like she will take the blade away. Her dark skin is marred with burn scars, but her eyes are a supernatural green colour that lures in anyone who looks at her. Her longer fingers are posed, palm open to take it from me. “Don’t do something you will regret.”
“Saph, if the prisoner wishes to get her ass beat, let her.” Orthia’s voice is commanding and sure. She hasn’t moved from her spot when I peer around the elf. “Comedy is good for morale.”
“Trust me,” I say, giving her a sure smile.
I’m not actually sure as I walk into the makeshift ring. The crowd is silent, entirely unlike the cheering for Lagulla. I take a deep breath through my nose in an attempt to settle the nerves fluttering about my stomach. When I feel something slide across the back of my sweat-dampened shirt, I shiver.
“You were chosen for a reason, sweet one,”Love whispers, their voice echoing around my skull like murmurs in a stadium.
Exactly. Love chose me, I just need her to see it too. Having a real sword fight to prove to my soulmate we are meant to be seems like a great idea. This is what I need to do to reach this goal. Orthia has to know what I am capable of, which means I won’t hold back any part of myself from her.
As I take the stance for sabre, right side forward with my blade at the ready, my limbs begin to lighten. The weapon in my hand is heavier and my body is tired, but instinct takes over. My muscles know what should happen now, even though it has been several months. I hadn’t found a good sparring partner since I came to Gwenmore, so I am a little rusty. Orthia looks at me for a moment, that serious scowl still set on her face. So I do what comes naturally: I taunt her.
“Ready for my ass whooping.” I wink again for added measure.
There is a breath of space, neither of us moving. I know she is sizing me up because I am doing the same to her. Her sword is shorter, the blade wider, and the handle bulkier than mine. It shines in the overhead lighting. Whatever was wrong with her shoulder on Thursday isn’t bothering her now. The softness I thought I saw in her this morning is also gone. There is a storm brewing in her features now. Sweat dots her forehead, but she isn’t tired. The captain is ready to fight me.
Her first advance is slow, sword relaxed. She feints, either to scare me or to get me off balance. I hold, waiting until I see any sort of twitch in her that will signal an actual attack. Maybe she thinks I will get tired of staying in this position, and she is partly right. My body is thrumming with anticipation, ready to start pumping adrenaline into me so I can win.
Orthia advances, and the rush begins. Her sword crashes against mine with more strength than I expect. My parry nearly fails. She keeps advancing, and I’m trapped in a defensive state, continuing to retreat until I can feel the heat of the women behind me. I have to make an offensive move, but she isn’t giving me even a second to do more than block between each cut she makes.
She slashes again, her sword sweeps through the air and I barely block it. The edge of her blade slices down mine until we are hilt to hilt. Orthia isn’t even breathing hard. The storm in her eyes darkens her features, but we are so close together I can see how blown her pupils are, the iris a thin circle.
Thoughts of proving my prowess evaporate. I am lost to her this close. Her even breaths tickle my lips, her nose almost touches mine. I want this to be a moment we can remember for the rest of time. Every part of my tired body is screamingattack. This is your opening, but I want to kiss her. I want to shove forward until our chests meet, swords dangerously pressed into our skin, and taste her.
Warmth builds between us the longer we are so close without touching. A pull I can’t explain is begging me to close the gap. She must feel it, too. She must. A phantom touch, one that I know is Love, pushes us closer and makes my knees bend enough that she can look down at me.
But then she retreats.
We disconnect, and the heat is gone. I swipe my forehead over my shoulder to clear the sweat if only to calm down the desire threatening to burst through me. I lick my lips, salty sweat coating my tongue instead of a taste of Orthia.
“You’re better than I expected,” she says.
It’s not a compliment, but my body reacts like it is. My insides soften, and whatever nerves flutter in me morph into something hungry. A coiling sensation inside me makes me shiver and keeps my pulse racing while I try to calm my arousal.
“I’m good at a lot of things.”
