Aseliacon 2014 commission for EnsanguinedBirdy! They requested Cress post-game, 500 words.
"Three things give the student the possibility of surpassing his teacher: ask a lot of questions, remember the answers, teach."
-Jan Amos Coménius
The boy chopped viciously at the training dummy with his wooden sword, straining to put the kind of power into each blow that came so naturally to the older boys and girls. He drew back, swiping at the sweat on his brow, before diving back in to the task at hand, completing the standard practice repetitions given to each of the youngsters.
He'd been at it all afternoon, his shoulders and back aching, arms desperate to go limp as well cooked noodles, and yet he still couldn't knock the dummy's shield down! Gritting his teeth with frustration, he lunged forward for the final blow, then allowed himself to slump in defeat. It was just too hard. Maybe his dad was right, and he should just focus on taking over the family business.
"Finished for the day?" The polite query came from behind him, and he instantly snapped to attention. He spun around, back straightening, hoping he didn't look too shamefully exhausted. It would be horrible to look so worn out in front of the Master of the school himself. But the old man, normally of stern gaze and steely expression, looked different today: curious, even sympathetic. The boy cautiously relaxed, and was rewarded with a slight smile from the grandfatherly swordmaster.
"I can see how hard you've been working," the Master said, pacing over to stand beside him, looking over the practice mannequin with a critical eye. "The particular combination you're working on is difficult and takes time to master."
The boy sighed with frustration, turning to look at the dummy as well. "Do you think I'll become a swordsman one day if I keep practicing?" he asked, unable to keep the plaintive note out of his voice.
The Master paused, and a faraway look came into his eye. "You know," he said slowly, "I asked my own swordmaster that, once. I'll tell you what he told me. 'If you practice hard, you'll be even better than me.'"
The boy gave him the sour look that too many children seemed to have these days, one that said all too clearly how little they trusted the words of the adults around them. "And did you? Become better than your master, I mean."
He was taken aback to see the Master close his eyes, shoulders tensing as if to brace himself. The old man looked sad, as if something the boy said had wounded him. "I did," the swordmaster said at last, one wrinkled hand coming up to clutch at his collarbone, in the place where a necklace's token might rest. "I've outlived him by many, many years, after all. But I've managed to carry on his life's work, through this school and through students like you."
With widened eyes the boy looked up at him. "You studied under Master Miguel? The Master Miguel?"
"You could say that," the old man said with a smile. "He taught me many things. I'd like to think... that he'd be proud of all this. If he could see you students, and everything you've learned..." He could see the resolve coming back to the boy, he just needed one last push. "I think he'd be impressed to see how far you've come in so short a time. I certainly am." The swordmaster's smile was genuine; after all this time, thinking on the loss of his parents brought only a pang of sadness to his heart. How he wished they'd lived to see what he'd accomplished. If only his father could have seen how much his own life had mattered, and how much Cress Albane, a hero of eternity, relied on his father's words to teach the students of this school.
The boy pursed his lips, examining the Master's craggy face carefully, then nodded sharply. He stepped away from the old man and raised his sword again. "I'm not gonna give up!" he vowed. "I'm gonna keep practicing as hard as I can! Maybe one day I'll even beat you!"
"All students should become better than their teachers," Cress agreed. There was a strange twinkle in his eye as he watched the boy return to his drills with a newfound determination. "And I have it on rather good authority," he murmured as the boy began striking at the dummy with renewed vigor, "That you'll turn out a rather fine swordsman someday, after all."