Every muscle ached, each movement threatened to bring with it a fresh wave of pain. The sweat poured from his brow, down the hair plastered to his face and into his eye. The salty sweat stung, blinding him to his shield arm. She noticed. She swung high at his sword arm then at the last second changed course and deftly swung under his counter attack, rolled past his shield and disappeared into his blind spot. Taking advantage of his temporary blindness she struck his hip with the flat of her blade. Even through the layers of cloth, leather and mail the blow stung. He ignored the pain, pain is in the mind and a soldier is the master of his mind. He spun to face her, swinging his shield in a wide arc, hoping to intercept her. She anticipated the move however and when he finished his manoeuvre she was crouched just out of reach, poised to strike. She lunged at him, throwing her full weight into his chest. He was knocked back but recovered quick enough to parry her strike with his shield. This time he struck. He brought his sword down in a deadly arc. He forgot to compensate for the weight of the mail and over swung, throwing himself off balance. She immediately took advantage of his carelessness and stuck. Dum luck placed his shield between them however and the blade glanced off. He anticipated her next attack and swung his shield even as she swung her sword. His strength out powered hers and she was knocked back several paces, giving him time to recover his footing.
They were back on neutral footing, circling each other, measuring each other with practiced eyes. She matched his every step with a delicate ease, her blade always between them. She wore light leathers, they were well worn but that meant they were flexible. She wielded a short sword. It didn't have the same reach as Macs bastard sword but it was lighter and so was she. She was a foot shorter and had a smaller frame but that meant she was faster and although she was smaller she was far from weak. Weighed down from his armour she had the upper hand for the first half of the fight. The mail was sapping his strength, it was making him clumsy and so far he had yet to find an advantage to it. She wasn't showing any signs fatigue, her form was sharp, her look focused, she was comfortable. Mac took the opportunity to clear the sweat from his eyes. This was her queue to re engage.
She threw several quick strikes that he parried with ease. She was testing his defences. She struck out at his shield arm, testing his defences and quickly discovered he had his peripherals back. They traded blows, attack and counter attack, strike and parry. After a couple of minutes she went back on the offensive. She struck out for his sword arm, but he caught the blow and got his shield between them. He pushed with the remainder of his strength, launching her across the yard. This time he was one step ahead of her. She recovered quick, as he knew she would, and lunged at him with a thrust. He fought his instinct to knock the blade aside and instead opened himself up for the strike. A flash of panic and shock covered Sophia's face and just as quick it was gone. Mac caught on to it however and knew he had the upper hand. He let the point hit his chest and as it did he twisted with the lunge. The blade glanced of the steel rings, sliding across them as easily as if they were an oil cloth. He completed his twist, bringing the flat of his blade over the back of the startled woman's thighs. The momentum carried her forward into the dirt. She regained her composure in time to roll out of the fall however Mac was already on her, striking relentlessly. She lost ground with every strike. One foot, two feet, three. She marched backward toward the barn. His final up thrust knocked her into the hay bale, sending the sword flying from her grasp. He looked down at her, could it be he just won? The answer came in the form of a smirk. He knew that smirk, it was cocky, confident and said "got you now". Before he could bring his blade down on her he was chocking on dirt and dust. Then a weight pushed high against his chest, toppling him. All of a sudden Sophia was on him. She had a knee on each arm, pinning him. He struggled but under the weight of the of the cloth, leather, mail and Sophia herself it was a futile task. His struggles ceased the instant he felt the cold steel against his throat.
"Best two out of three?" Mac just grumbled in response. At that Sophia relaxed and collapsed, dropping her weight onto his stomach. "Ugh! Would you get off? Makers breath this mail is heavy enough."
"You're losing your touch." She joked, making no move to get up.
"You try fighting in this metal death trap. It's too clumsy."
"If Orleasian bards can fight in high heels and a corset, I'm sure you can fight in some light mail." At that he grumbled and pushed her off. She laughed and rolled to her feet, helping him up once she gained her footing. "I don't know why you insist on having me fight in this thing. I fight just fine in my leathers, where is the point in armour if you don't get hit in the first place?"
She sighed, "You know that Knights Templar all wear mail and plait, your father did, and he did so without grumbling like some wee boy getting dressed for Sunday service." She saw the sorrow in his eyes, he tried to hide it but she saw. She always saw his emotions, more often than he knew. She moved to him and straightened his hauberk. "Trust me you'll be fine. The Chantry would have to be crazy not accept you. He'd be proud to see you, you know. And even more so when you are standing at attention at the academy in your full plate." She gave him a punch on the shoulder. "Besides, you're going to drive me crazy if you are stuck in this town any longer."
"Mac? " The voice came from across the garden, sweet and comforting, bringing to mind honey and fresh bread. It was a voice he'd heard from his first breath and one he loved dearly.
"Yes mother?" Mac shouted over to the house. His mother stood there, on the porch, hugging the rough wooden beam as if it were going to provide her warmth from the crisp autumn night.
"Supper is ready, you'll be wanting one last descent meal before your trip won't you?"
Mac's stomach was grumbling and the thought of a warm bowl of his mothers rabbit stew was bringing saliva to his mouth. "I'll be there in just a moment mother". His deep voice carried across the garden with ease.
"Your more than welcome to join us Soph, there's plenty to go around"
"Thank you Mary but I should probably spend the night with my family. If I don't my mother will hunt me down, and if she doesn't then I am certain one of my brothers would do it for her, then there'd be a reckoning." She giggled at her own joke and waved goodbye as Mary smiled and walked back into the house. "Well I should probably get back home before my mother does actually send out a search party. I will see you in the morning however, bright eyed and bushy tailed and ready to hit the road." At that she embraced him in a bear hug. Shocked by the sudden invasion of his personal space Mac froze up, then reluctantly patted her awkwardly on the back in the best imitation of intimacy he could muster. She seemed to understand his meaning and broke the hug with her usual content smile plastered across her face. "Good night, my good Knight"
"Yes, night" He grumbled in a quiet response and at that she left. Mac took a deep breath before walking back to the house. The air was thin and crisp, it stung his lungs as he breathed it in more bracing than uncomfortable. The smells of earth and damp grass was overpowered by the smell of salt and fish, the comforting smells of home. Best enjoy it whilst you can Mac, this is the calm before the storm he mused, at that he made his way back to the house.
The fire burned in the hearth, providing warmth and light to the otherwise dark and bare room. The flames stood in stark contrast to the dark oak and leather that made up the room and it's meagre furnishings. The Tharos family home was far from grand but it was home never the less, and there was nowhere else Mac found more comforting. His mother had already set the table, plates and cutlery set out at their usual seats, bowl of stew in the centre and a couple of candles sat between them. He removed his Mail shirt and breaches and sat in his seat, the one facing the door with the fire to his left.
"Ah good, your back, and eager to eat I see". She joined him at the table, sitting at her seat, across from his. They were both acutely aware of the empty seat that sat between them, however neither of them were about to mention it. The flames danced across Mary's face, highlights and shadows pronouncing the defined cheek bones and delicate features that spoke of a youth of beauty and hiding the weathered and wrinkled skin that declared her advanced years. They ate in silence, Mac eating healthy mouth full whilst his mother picked at her food. She had become like that lately, she hardly ate and she would spend her nights sobbing. Mac pretended not to hear, his mother was a strong woman, most Fereldian women were. However everyone needs to grieve in their own way, even those who are strongest, so Mac let her grieve.
The silence of the meal wasn't uncommon for them, even before Macs father had passed, but that night there was something more to it. Something lingered in the room, like a bad smell that you can't find the source of, however neither of them were willing to bring it into the light. Marry suddenly broke the ice. "Don't go" she pleaded, with a voice barely louder than whisper.
"Pardon?" Mac asked, only partially hearing what his mother had said.
She continued on, apparently oblivious to her sons question. "You could stay, take care of me, tend to the field. You could enjoy some more time with Sophia, train her younger brothers how to work wood the way you do." Her pleas were not made toward him, more musings, her mind spoken aloud as she stared deeply into her stew, never looking directly at him. "You don't need to throw your life away," this time it was directed at him. Her eyes full of desperation and sorrow, begging him to listen to her words. "You don't need to study and train and bleed for the Chantry. They have enough men for that."
"Mother..." He had thought this conversation was finished with. He was hoping for one last night together, sharing in the simple comforts of home before he headed into the chaos of the Capital City.
That was not to be so as she continued on with her thought out arguments. "You can find honour and pride in what you do here at home."
"You know it's not just about that." Mac repeated for what seemed the hundredth time, "What about you? How can I support you? There is no work to be had here, and with father..." he paused to find the right words, the damage was already done however. She already had that look in her eye the one she got when she thought of his father. The one that threatened to reduce both of them to tears. "...gone. Well if I am serving the Chantry then they will look after you and support you. And once I finish my training then I will be earning enough to keep us going." Her hard face told him that his arguments were falling on deaf ears. He continued regardless, "Besides, I'm not cut out to be a logger or some fisherman's apprentice. Sword play is the only thing I am good at." By the time he finished speaking even he knew his points were weak.
"You could find work in West Hill. They need help re-building after the Darkspawn and you're good enough with your hands, plus I am sure they could find use for those broad shoulders of yours." By now the fight had subsided from her words and she was beginning to admit defeat. She had one last play left in her however. It was the one that mattered, the true reason she didn't want him off training to fight mages, demons and other horrific nightmares. "I've already lost my William" She said, once again making her arguments to her bowl of now cold stew. "Your father lost his life serving the Chantry, fighting monsters far from home in the company of strangers when he should have been here, at home, with his family."
His father had been stationed at Westerly Point, the post given to him in his later years, as a reward for his service. He was allowed to raise a family as he served the local Chantry. He got called south however to Ostagar to help fight the Darkspawn and keep an eye on the Mages who had been given leave to do so also. The thought of the proud Ser William fighting in the mud and taint against creatures straight out of children's horror stories was an unsettling one.
"I can't lose you too Mac. I just can't" her eyes had softened and her voice lacked the defiance it had earlier.
"You won't Mother, I promise. I shan't be fighting monsters any time soon." He promised, "and it won't be for long. Once I pass my training I will return home, serve the Chantry here, just as father did." He reached across the table and patted her hand, doing his best to comfort her. The motion however seemed to more amuse her than comfort her and she gave a laugh and a small sigh.
"No you won't," all seriousness lost from her voice. "Once you get a taste for the outside world you won't want to come back to this quiet little town. You'll be off hunting Maleficar and blood mages, or serving at one grand Circle or another." She sighed, the weight and stress of the situation seemingly aging her by twenty years in an instant. "But if that's what your heart desires, well I won't stop you."
Mac was surprised, he had fully expected his mother to continue the argument right up until he left for the city. The relief brought a smile to his face. "Thank you mother. I know it's hard to let me go, but this is the way father would have it I think. I promised him I would make him proud, and a Tharos never breaks a promise" They finished the last sentence together in unison and at that the conversation was closed and they dishes cleaned.