Chapter 1 – A Brittle Longing

Slam.

The door slammed shut. The silence following it was almost palpable; the many layers of dust which coated the room, disturbed, made faint sounds which only seemed to accentuate the silence. The empty room gave the impression of being entirely forgotten: you'd have thought that had the room self-consciousness, the only thing keeping it on this plane would be its constant reminder to itself: "I am a room."

One could almost believe that the room didn't exist. Not on this time plane; not on this world thread. And, truth be told, they'd be half-right.

The dust settled. The door was closed, now, the room sealed once more. Deliberately he placed his hand against a wall, concentrating. The door shimmered and disappeared.

Just another illusion. He had never entered, after all. Time had no meaning, and space thus no existence.

Which was just how he liked it.

He let his hand fall to his side; he sighed: perhaps the first real sound to have graced the room… or the room which wasn't a room. Turning toward the center of the room, he reached beneath the dark cape he wore and removed a small wand; black and gold. He waved the MagicCodar around twice, savoring its feel. He hadn't been able to use his skills in quite a while; after all, Magic Suppression Fields rendered his abilities useless.

Now, though, in a world free of the boundaries set by its thread, he was free to exercise his suppressed powers. Drawing a circle in the air, he watched as a trail of purple fire followed: his eyes followed the flickering of the flames as the space within the circle of fire began to warp. A faint gasp escaped his lips as he watched the swirling colours.

Now it would begin.

I never know what to expect from one of her training courses: that they rarely involve any form of conventional training at all is the only constant. It isn't that I mind not having to kill a thousand slimes a day or massacre a forest of mushrooms, but there is a limit to…

"Right. For today, you're on cleaning duty!"

I sigh. What else can I do? She is my superior, after all. The chief has specifically put her in charge of me, even though she definitely doesn't look much older than I am. While he's specifically said that she can only give me orders as are related to my training, she seems, instead, to treat me as though I'm her personal errand-boy.

Well. At least mopping floors and wiping windows are somewhat more normal than tying ribbons on pigs or demanding snail shells from young adventurers as tax. The latter resulted in both of us getting scolded… rather; she somehow managed to pin the blame on me. I still have no idea what she's done with the few hundred shells I collected.

Shrugging, I accept my assignation with just the barest hint of enthusiasm. Obviously not enough for her.

"Come on! It's not like I'm forcing you to mash Slimes into squishy liquids with your bare hands…!"

… Considering I did that last week, and never want to think about it again, she really knows how to put things in perspective.

"I'll bet lots of people out there would love to be in your shoes now!"

… Yeah; let me count them. One—nope: that's me. Sometimes I'm not sure she knows what she's talking about.

Of course, living in a military system the way we do means there isn't much I can do but bow my head and obey. I'm not even sure why she's getting me to do this anyway: cleaning isn't her duty, after all. As far as I know, the trainers here have only one job—not that she does hers at all.

I twist the cold metal handle of the storeroom door, letting it swing open soundlessly. The mop and bucket seem to call to me: soundlessly, no doubt, in a tone of infinite mocking. I look about myself, unsure of what else to take with me: the chilling, stale air with permeates the dank room reminds me I've no wish to be here. I grab a few of the rags which hang against a wall and run back to meet her: she condemns lateness—my lateness, anyway.

For once, she looks satisfied. It's still hard to believe that she's actually a trainer. She's hardly older than I am, and more immature. She points to the dining hall as I approach, the smile on her face mischievous. I do my best to look miserable: it's not very hard. But she doesn't even seem to feel remotely guilty. For a moment I almost wish I was among the other trainees, with a sword in one hand and shield in the other: shouldn't there be someone to do these chores? Other than me; anyway.

I push the door open, knowing that the only greeting I'll get is the squeaking of the door hinges and the musty air of a room disused. When it's time for people to eat, the room will be bursting with life, with hungry warriors of all ranks tucking into their daily meals. Right now, though, it's empty. As empty as my head's feeling at the moment, probably.

She follows behind me as I step into the room. She's humming a tune under her breath, and while I don't generally mind it, I do wish she'd seem a little less nonchalant. I don't even think I'm meant to be doing this. Some of the trainees seem to think being under a girl my age than an aging instructor is a pretty good deal, but at least they get to fight: I doubt I've learnt a quarter of the things they have.

This can hardly be a warrior's purpose.

The water gurgles merrily as it pours from the tap into the bucket. The cool sensation as it laps against my hand is pleasant; given the current weather conditions, anyway. In the cold months, even Fire Boars are forced to hibernate. The Red Drakes remain, of course, but they've always been a pain, anyway.

I dip the mop into the bucket, waiting until it's a substantial weight in my hands before lifting it from the water and onto the floor. Swabbing, it's called. The mop squelches obligingly in my hands, splashing water to the left and right. She nimbly leaps atop a table and watches as I work, her legs dangling off its side.

She never does like to help. I progress slowly, the silence of the room and the boredom of the task almost more than I can bear. Faintly, the sounds of swords clashing can be heard outside, and I long to join them. But all I have is my trainer and her intermittent humming. My only consolation is the fact that cleaning rooms is at least normal, if entirely mundane.

The sunlight streams through the windows, filling the room with a heat which does little to improve the situation. I pause, and for a moment I consider the mop in my hands. Then, with a furtive glance at her, I raise the mop in the air, swinging it; relishing the feel of a pseudo-spear in my hands…

"Hey. That's not part of your training for today, is it?"

Her chastising seems at least partly out of amusement, and also a little annoyance: possibly because some of the water flung off the mop had narrowly missed her.

Reluctantly, I set the mop down, biting my lip before I say anything. She never does get angry about anything I say against her training regimens, but I don't feel comfortable correcting her, despite all the doubts I have. It might also be because of the unusual penalties she imposes whenever I step out of line.

I make a face: I don't actually realize I've done anything of the sort until she returns it a moment later; an act of childishness which I've become entirely accustomed to. That's one reason why she seems to be younger than I am, I guess, but you wouldn't know that from her accomplishments: trainers were usually much older than she was.

"Come on, get to it!" she motions somewhat impatiently as I snap out of my momentary trance, "we've got to get some work done before it's time for lunch!"

If she's so anxious to get this place cleaned up, then why doesn't she do some work herself?

And it's not like the dining hall is very dirty, either. The windows are clear, and the tables are clean enough for her to be lying down on one of them. Someone's obviously been doing his work… possibly another hapless trainee like me: or, more likely, the person actually responsible for cleanliness around here.

I'm done with the floor and halfway through the tables and countertops when she finally gets me to stop. She doesn't actually say anything, just gets off the table and nods, as though satisfied, before turning to me.

"I think we've done enough work for today."

We? She hardly lifted a finger at all. But it's an inaccuracy I've learnt to live with, if only because it's just how the cookie crumbles. I've never been one to complain; outwardly, anyway. I dry off the tables before following her outside. I'm surprised at the sudden change, though: cleaning a huge hall for the better part of three hours and then just stopping doesn't sound at all like what she'd do. Maybe it's the fact that lunch is soon to be served. Still, things like that have never stopped her before.

I deposit the cleaning materials in the storeroom before walking back to her. She's waiting atop the large plateau just behind the hall: it's not normally used for anything at all, so it's no surprise to see it empty.

"Why didn't I have to finish the job, then?" I asked. She was young enough not to treat it as impertinence when I ask her a question, although she sometimes ignores me anyway. This time, though, she replies, if a tad nonchalantly.

"I changed my mind. It was getting boring…"

Yeah; getting boring just lying there while I do all the work… then again, if she stops when she gets bored, then what exactly does she make me do these trainings for?

She sighs. She seems to be thinking of something: she looks about herself for a moment, and then turns to me again.

"Let's begin, then," her cheerful voice seems to clash with the way she's looking at me. It isn't mischievous: well; maybe a little, but that's not it. It's a little resigned, a little determined, and maybe just a little deadly.

Begin…? I ask the question, unsure and uncertain of the answer: or even that I want to hear it.

She's smiling now, and it's a wan one that makes me feel more than a little confused: if I wasn't before, I am now.

"Oh, come on…" she raises her arm as she speaks, and then I notice the sword she has in her hand. "Combat training."

I pause as I notice the second sword on the ground behind her. How I didn't notice it before, I can't really say. I expect I wasn't paying enough attention. I am now, though. Not that I can still believe what she's saying.

Wait. Combat training? She means it?

She gives me a patient glance, and then tosses the sword over. I flinch as it hurtles towards me, and then I realize it's just a wooden sword. Heavy, but I dodge out of the way without any problems. I catch the sword neatly about the hilt—no problem, really: not after the flies she had me catch the last time—and then point the tip back to her.

I've used swords before, of course: before the trainers, we're given a course on basic weapon mastery. Not that my trainer's ever gone anywhere beyond that. This wooden sword feels a little lighter than the simple swords and axes we've used before, but it handles well: it's definitely better crafted, even if the material is questionable.

But she's already drawn her own wooden sword from the sheath she has strapped about her waist. Another wooden sword: not that I can expect her to draw anything more lethal. She nods at me, as though asking me to make my approach. Is it a ruse?

I hesitate. She's waiting. She nods again. My move, then: but it's obvious that her movements are but a ruse.

With a resigned sigh, I rush forward at her. As I approach, I slash down sharply, bringing my weapon across her—

Thwack

She stops my attack with surprising ease: not that I'd have expected anything less. Yet her slender body implies nothing of the strength she holds within her: it's like ramming the weapon into a brick wall. My attack was halted. The wooden sword she used to parry my attack wasn't even shaken.

Thump

She gives an apologetic smile as she easily knocks the blade out of my hands with the hilt of her own: I barely have time to think before my weapon is on the ground, five feet away from me. It doesn't seem like she's done anything at all: the whole movement was fluid enough that I barely notice anything until she's done.

She hits me lightly on the head with the flat of her blade before shrugging.

"Now that you've learnt that a mad rush doesn't work…" the smile on her face seems to be one of amusement now, "let's try a different approach."

The fact that she's actually teaching me to use a sword overrides any resentment I might have about how she's laughing at my inexperience. Most of the time, it seems like she's just treating my training as a past-time for her amusement. While I can't deny that it hasn't ever been dull for the most part, it was never actually teaching me anything.

I recover my sword as she waves her own blade at me again. She has her sword down: an invitation for a frontal attack. This time, though, I try a low sweep out and into her left. As I run towards her, I keep my body balanced, feinting at the last moment and crouching low while I bring my arm across my chest to strike.

She parries the blow again: despite the fact that I've struck the foible of her blade with the forte of my own (although, to be fair, the sword has no definite weaker or stronger point), her guard shows no signs of weakening: her wrist is locked and firm as she breaks away from the engagement: she springs away, leaving barely a moment's opening: too short a space of time for me to use at all.

And then, even as I try to stand, I feel the flat of her weapon on my head again. She smiles again as she turns: her hair fans out behind her as she moves to a position a distance from me again.

"Your approaches are too predictable," she sounds almost sorry about it: almost. I shake my head in irritation: it's not my fault I don't know anything, is it?

She seems to realize that the demonstrations of my failure aren't helping. She puts a finger to her chin as she thinks for a moment, before finally coming to a decision.

"Look, I'll attack you, and you try and block the attack. How does that sound?"

If she's expecting me to be excited by that, she's going to be sorely disappointed. Another display of how bad I am. Excellent. I sometimes wonder if she's really thinking when she does that pose. Maybe she's just looking cute… but that's a different thing altogether.

Shrugging, I guard, watching as she makes her approach. Her movements are fluid: something you don't automatically realize when the person in question's the one asking you to do a host of menial labours each and every day. That said, it's hard to ignore the grace and speed with which she's moving… even if that's only to your disadvantage. Especially in a scenario such as this.

She catches me off-guard: despite my anticipating her approach, she somehow manages to break her rhythm on her last step: she falters for a half-second while I attempt to riposte her non-existent attack. As my blade sweeps over her head, she ducks under it, bringing the forte of her own against mine and knocking it aside once again. She gets to her feet and for a moment her body is just an inch from mine. I scarcely dare to breathe.

Thwack

And then she hits me on the head with her weapon again. Her skill with the weapon is amazing. If I'd tried to do that, I would've impaled her first. I sigh again. I don't see how any of this is helping my swordplay, let alone my self-esteem. She gives me a perplexed look. It might also be a look of withering impatience, but I hardly feel she has any right to feel that way. Nevertheless, I scratch my head sheepishly and confess my inexperience. Not that it was ever in any doubt.

Of course, that doesn't make any difference at all. There is a mock-frown on her face as she turns to face me again.

"You haven't learnt much, have you?"

I raise my hands in mute surrender as she points the blade impatiently at me. She shakes her head, and I've little recourse but to pick it up again.

I don't put it down for another two hours.

Somewhere in the distance, the lunch bell tolls.

A/N: It's done! Kinda. I'll leave the plot of this story a secret for now, but it's more than a slice-of-life story about a trainee warrior and his overbearing female trainer. The opening should be enough to remind you of that. I hope you find it interesting, though. To be honest, I started writing this four months or so ago… but got bored. And only rediscovered it the day before yesterday, and decided to finish it.

Whether or not you liked it or hated it… well; I wouldn't know unless you reviewed, would I?