Sometimes she wonders how his sword would feel in her hand.
(It's heavy, of course, but no heavier than the dresses she clads herself in every day, stiff skirts and headdresses that carry the weight of the entire state. It's funny how many people still think she wouldn't be able to lift a sword.)
"Show me," she asks, and Damon drops on one knee and holds the sword out for her in a heartbeat, as if she were his general.
(She is.)
It's been ages since she last held a sword, and it feels so different now – lighter and heavier at the same time. She can hold it and swing it, even though her legs barely remember the few moves she learned as a girl. To Damon's credit, he doesn't flinch when she starts moving towards him. He simply takes her in, and starts giving instructions, relax your wrist, move your foot, straighten your back, a little more to the right, my lady. Elena follows his calm voice and loses herself in movements, one-two-cut, like child's play.
(If she lets it drop, heads will roll.)
"I should have a fencing master," she says to see if Damon will defy her, but he gives her a short bow, as if saying he'll make arrangements immediately. Of course he does.
As she hands the sword back to Damon, she can't take her eyes off his bent head, sudden sense of danger making her shiver. The chamber feels far too small now, and Elena wishes Damon would get up already, instead of lingering at her feet for a second too long.
(She wishes he'd get up already, so that she doesn't have to wonder whether she'll ever have the strength to let the sword drop on his neck.)