Of Courage and Cowards
Parry. Parry. Riposte. Parry.
She ducks the elbow he aims at her face and tries for a low blow to his midsection that he blocks immediately. He can tell that she's exhausted. Her face is covered in a fine sheen of sweat and her breath goes hard and heavy. A gasp escapes her when her foot slips on a patch of wet grass and forces her to her knees. A mistake – one of many – he won't let go unpunished. With a twist of his wrist, Nathaniel brings the broad side of his short sword down on her backside, ignoring the furious cry she gives with the harmless but painful slap.
"Concentrate!" he bellows instead, dragging her back to her feet none too gently. She glares at him when she forcefully frees her arm from his hold, pushing him back.
"I do concentrate!" she heatedly shoots back, rubbing her bottom where his slap must sting like hell.
"No, you don't! You act like you've never held a sword before!"
Nate is very well aware that two years have passed since she last held a weapon in hand. He knows she's out of form and that he's probably expecting too much of her after only three weeks of training but he is frustrated and angry and hurt. Angry, because she still runs from her responsibilities as Commander even two years after Anders died, hiding behind excuses to not having to confront her fears. And frustrated and hurt because of what had transpired between them a week ago.
It was just sex.
He can still hear her words ringing in his ears, those words she said just minutes after they made love to each other for the first time. Just sex. Thinking of her telling him that to his face even though she knew about his feelings and after making him believe he is more important to her than he obviously is still makes him feel physically sick. After Rendon's death, he thought no one would ever be able to hurt him as much as his father did but he had been wrong. It does hurt. Badly.
And with all of that occupying his thoughts, their training session more than anything serves as a valve for him to release his anger and hurt. Seeing her fight her tiredness and sore muscles, her bleeding hands and aching arms is a very satisfying sight in his current mood.
"Again!" he commands as he would do with his recruits, knowing full well that he is provoking her with his attitude and tone of voice. "Come on, attack me! What are you waiting for?"
Nate watches her taking a fighting stance, forcing herself to raise her weapons again. He notices the slight quivering of her legs, her hesitation before the attack. He himself is absolutely relaxed, almost carelessly so, his breath even and calm but his eyes are hard as steel and equally unforgiving. She's no match for him and they both know it.
Parry. Parry. Riposte. Parry.
He gives a disappointed grunt as to the inaccuracy of her attacks when he winds her sword from her too limp left hand and shoves her back against a tree with almost brutal force. The impact is hard enough that it makes the leaves above them rustle and drives all breath from her lungs. A pang of guilt stabs at his guts for he knows that this was unnecessary, purely born from his increasing frustration with that woman.
"This is pointless!" he growls, his disappointment clear in his voice even though he does not know what it is that disappoints him more: her stubborn denial to finally overcome the past or being robbed of the chance to vent his anger on her.
"Then why do you even bother?"
Her tone is brittle, defensive and he hates it, just hates it. Her asking him that question is perfect proof of how much she has changed. The woman she once was, the woman he fell in love with, would have been in his face by now, confronting him verbally and physically about his attitude towards her. He wants that woman back but nothing he does seems to get through to her anymore and, Maker, forgive him, he's so tired of trying!
"Yes, why do I bother indeed?" he quietly says after a long moment of tense silence. Usually, he would try and cheer her up with comforting words, tell her she's stronger than this, that he believes in her but Nate can't find those words anymore. He feels empty all of a sudden, utterly spend.
Sheathing his swords, he turns away from her. His legs feel like they have lead weights strapped to them and his throat is strangely tight. Thunder rolls from the gray skies above them and he can feel the first hesitant drops of rain on his face. Even the weather seems to be receptive for the depressing and tense vibes between them, reflecting their miserable mood.
"You don't understand! I can't do this! I don't have it in me anymore! I can't be who you want me to be!" he hears her call after him. Her voice is pleading, desperate, tearing at his heart and it is just too much. Something inside of him snaps. He is so done with pampering her, with trying to convince her of her strength with gentle words and loving patience. His hands clench into fists by his sides, anger overwriting his resignation and hurt as he spins back around to face her again.
"I, I, I, I! That is all I've been hearing from you for months on end! I can't, I need, I don't want to! You're sounding like the spoiled, Orlesian brat you never wanted to be! Drowning in fear and self-pity! Tearing yourself to pieces will not bring him back, when will you get that into your thick head?"
She flinches with his harsh tone, averting her eyes and it only fuels his fury more. With a few long strides, he crosses the distance between them and shoves her back against that tree once more, holding her there with his arm across her chest and his face only inches away from hers.
"I don't know why I wasted my time with you! I should have seen from the start what a selfish, pathetic bitch you really are! You're absolutely right, you're so not who I wanted you to be!" he hisses, oblivious of the tears that have gathered in her eyes, voice dripping with contempt. A sob escapes her and she tries to wriggle free from his relentless hold but he won't let her.
"Oh no, sweetheart, I am not done with you yet! You will stay put until I tell you otherwise!"
He's mercilessly pressing his advantage now, enjoying his dominance over her probably more than he should but it just feels so good to let go of all those bottled-up emotions that threaten to strangle him. He feels her struggling harder, more seriously, her elbow catching his ribs painfully.
"Let go of me!" she grits out through her teeth. He can't remember when she last sounded so sure, so confident. Her voice is raspy with tears but there is a steely note to it that makes him shiver with surprise and anticipation alike. It is not a plea, not an option. It is an order given by his Commander. Nate is far from complying with it, though.
"You'll have to force me to and I doubt that you will, coward that you are."
He has barely finished when he is already lying in the dirt below, her knee on his chest and her sword on his throat.
"I am no coward!" she hisses at him. He doesn't bother to try and hide the sardonic grin that creeps into his lips when he hears the ire in her voice. His body is tense like a bowstring, ready to fight back, adrenalin running high in his system.
"Then prove it," he challenges, grabbing her arm and throwing her off of him. Nate barely has the time to bring his swords back out before she launches herself at him again. Her attack comes with such force that he feels the impact vibrating all the way up to his shoulders when their blades collide. It takes all he has to keep her at bay. Maybe he should be concerned that she's not holding back, not caring that she might seriously injure him but all he feels is excitement. He wants this. He needs this. They both do.
With a grin, he breaks away and slashes at her with incredible speed, not holding anything back anymore himself, but now she's prepared and willing to fight and he has a hard time keeping up with her. The moves that were such an effort for her only minutes ago now come easy, fluent, deadly. Their blades meet in a flurry of motion, silver streaks against the darkened sky, an intricate dance of two masterfully trained fighters who know each other in and out, accompanied with thunder and lightning and the whooshing sound of the heavily falling rain.
The ground beneath them quickly turns into an ocean of mud, slippery and dangerous. Their hair and clothing cling to their bodies and they are drenched to the core but none of them really notices it. They are lost in the moment, adrenalin coursing through their veins and it feels so damn good!
It is pure misfortune that finally decides the outcome in Nate's favor. He knows he won't be able to keep up with her for very much longer when an especially hard block makes the blade of one of her swords break, throwing her off balance. He immediately takes his chance and sends her flying into the mud with a heavy blow of his elbow to her back. She barely has time to gasp when he is upon her already, blade at her throat, heart thumping fiercely in his chest.
For a long moment, they stare at each other, still high on emotion, heavily panting.
"Coward," Nate gently repeats in between breathes, not being able to help the feeling of triumph when he taps the flat side of his sword against her neck, signaling a lethal hit. He knows it is totally unwarranted but he doesn't really care. He does not care for anything, really, but the relief and joy he feels.
"I… am not… a coward," she answers equally breathless and he feels the edge of her still intact weapon pressing into his thigh, dangerously close to some quite important body parts. Mildly surprised, his eyes travel down to where her hand hovers between their legs.
"Touché," he breathes when he looks back up at her, grinning wildly. She's grinning back at him and he can't resist stroking a strand of mud-soaked hair from her cheek. She looks so much more herself again, lying there beneath him in the dirt, so full of life and new-found confidence.
So beautiful.
His grin slowly fades as a new kind of tension begins to rise between them. Suddenly, Nate is very aware of her rapidly beating pulse under his fingers, her breasts pressing against his chest, her hand, although still holding a potentially deadly blade, close to his groin. It would be so easy to kiss her now. Her face is just a hand's breadth from his and Maker, he so wants to do so but he can't. She made it perfectly clear that it is not what she wants and he has to accept that no matter how much it hurts.
He is almost glad when he feels her shivering violently beneath him, making him aware of how much the air had cooled and that there is a thunderstorm going on. Clearing his throat, he shifts his weight away from her.
"Come on, let's get inside before we catch our death out here," he forces himself to say. It takes him some effort but somehow he manages to pull back from her completely and stand up.
He thinks to see disappointment flicker over her face just then but he could easily be mistaken in the poor light of the raging storm. A tight knot forms in the pit of his stomach when the dull, heavy weight of frustration he's been feeling all week settles back in. He wishes he could grasp the happiness he's been feeling just a minute ago and hold onto it for a while longer, pretending for a few more precious moments that everything is alright but there are still too many things between them for it to last. He knows they need to talk about those things but he does not have the courage to address them right now. He's too tired and too wrapped up in his own feelings to work up the strength for that. Suddenly, all he wants is to get away from her, back to the solitary of his room to lick his wounds.
So, who's the coward now?
A small, self-deprecating smile tugs at his mouth as he helps her to her feet and walks her back to the keep.
Yeah, who's the coward now?