The small beads of sweat that broke out over the creases of his brow slowly trailed down the side of his face; not a moment later did his foot slip beneath him, his movement falter, and he tumble to the ground. A string of curses slipped from between his lips, sounding a bit too much like a single, garbled word akin to, "Fuckshitsonofabitchthissucks," instead of anything else.
David took the moment to dab his brow with the torn sleeve of his tee-shirt, long since destroyed and torn in battle, blood dried on the hems, forming a thin line to seal off the threads where the fabric was torn. Dropping his tired arm to his side, he sheathed Galahad's sword, a faint click ringing in the boys ears as the blade fit in the scabbard with practiced ease.
He flicked back a strand of hair as Christopher clamored back upon his feet, a grimace upon his features. "Fucking stupid," he muttered under his breath, but David's trained ears picked up on it.
"What is?" the dark haired boy asked, the corners of his lips curling upward in a smirk.
The blonde spit at the ground before running his dirtied fingers through his much too long strands of hair, trying to untangle the knots that had formed over however long it had been since his last bath. He realized with a glower that it had been so long ago that he couldn't even place a time upon it, and that was every meaning of the word wrong.
Picking up his own sword, which had fallen to the ground when he had lost his balance, Christopher cast an uncertain look at David. "Are you kidding me?" he asked sardonically. "Do you even hafta ask at this point? A wild stab in the dark is kinda telling me that all of it is."
David shook his head, hand resting on the hilt of his weapon as it always did. "It was your choice to stay here, you know," he said after a moment. "And your choice again to come along. You coulda said no, you know."
Christopher let out a half laugh, and replied, "And seemed like the coward among men? Don't think so, General. C'mon, let's go."
And with that, their blades began to cross yet again in the day's fourth practice. It was intent in the brown eyed boy's mind that his companion learn to wield a sword – not just whatever tool fell from the nearest dead guy's clutch. Ax, staff, dagger, mace: every apparatus needed to be adjusted to. Seeing as the sword was the most plentiful tool to be found among the battle-ready warriors of Olympus, it only seem logical that they –
"Fuuuck," Christopher moaned again as his sword fell from his hand, clattering against the ground just in time for David's to nick the back of his hand and slice the skin. "I quit!"
David rolled his eyes, taking a seat on one of the many boulders to be found around them in perfect reflection of the blonde's movements, back stooped over and hair plastering to the sweat-soaked flat of his forehead. "Fine," he said after a moment, "but when you've got the whole of the Hetwan race on you, don't come crying to me. They'll sooner burn a hole through your arm than I'll be helping."
There was a moment of quiet. Six times more than he had wanted to have, Christopher felt the acidic burn of the bug's 'spit balls;' it was enough to change anyone's mind, had they been sane. Then again, the question of Christopher's undying judgment had been under careful consideration for some time. Thereby, it was no surprise when it took a few extra seconds than it should have for a reaction to come about.
Without so much as a second thought, he leapt back up, poised and ready, and said, "Never mind, let's go."