I never picked up a weapon until I was nineteen, perhaps twenty years old. By that time, I had left my former name and family long behind, and with it the protection it offered from the Church. For the first time, it was my own responsibility to protect my life. I picked it up quite quickly, as I do anything I set my mind to. Not to sound arrogant; I know as well as anyone, likely far better, that I have many faults - but boasting is not one of them.
And then there is he, who never fails to humble me.
It is only natural, as he had many years' experience ahead of me to begin with - time spent as a soldier, wielding his sword often and with greater urgency than I, for he had something more dear to protect than his own life. In addition to the experience, he had duty and drive on his side, and though he will not admit it even to himself, a certain amount of ambition.
I can match him in speed, and perhaps even surpass him in agility, but my strength and endurance run low without the support of magic. Even then, our practice bouts never last long; despite his height and the awkward, self-conscious mannerisms he so often assumes in my presence, he fights with such skill that each motion seems natural for him. Lessons have flowed into familiarity and on into instinct, and the result is a grace that often causes me to wonder why he still refuses to join our brethren in the dance.
He bests me each time, though he quite obviously holds back when others are watching. Only courtesy, perhaps, but when we are alone in the courtyard at night, his restlessness or my dreams keeping us from slumber, at times I see a heat in his eyes that seems more than competitive. And then when I am knocked to the ground or divested of my weapon, perhaps bleeding from some accidental wound, beyond his mild guilt I see a bittersweet satisfaction; despite all my power and my charm, he has proved that in at least one way, he has the advantage over me. This satisfaction only breeds a deeper guilt, and perpetuates the cycle between us - he requests punishment, I comply, his quiet resentment grows stronger, and the next time his sword draws more blood, leading to yet more guilt.
The blood is easily dealt with; the guilt is another matter.