In which this interesting little plot point of the "sword lessons" progresses… Enjoy!
Warning: This, like Matutinus, is one of my technically detailed chapters with plenty of BS. I should really stop doing 'em. Yep, I'm female, but I write about swords and training a lot.
Teacher
Alistair
She finally brings up her request again when they're about three-quarters of the way to the Tower. "I did mean it, you know."
He looks to her at his side, puzzled. "What?"
She seems to be doing that thing of trying to feel her way through their conversation. Again. It's almost enough to make him grit his teeth - he'd thought they were getting somewhere. "Would you teach me? Teach me swordwork?"
He's surprised she's actually decided to see it through - he has seen her efforts with the dagger, and while almost passable by now, she's going to need intense training to improve. He winces. She's a mage - she wasn't designed for speed or strength, and he can't help worrying about how much it'll take out of her.
There's also the fact that he's always been the pupil, never the teacher, and the idea of this changing frightens him a little. "Er… me? Are you sure? I'm pretty certain Leliana could teach you a few dagger tricks."
She shakes her head. "I'm not fast. I can't… backstab like that, and a dagger just doesn't make any impact." Her voice is a little quieter now, as if she's… cringing? "Also, I've see you fight, and you're… well, very good."
He almost wants to laugh at such a odd compliment, but after years of repeatedly being told he's incompetent by those of the Chantry, it comes as a pleasant surprise. "If you're sure…" is his uncertain, half-questioning reply.
She nods, and nothing more is said as they walk on. Morgana falls back to talk to Leliana about… shoes, or… nugs, or whatever they talk about.
They enter a small village, Mertonshire, which seems to have some supplies, and he looks over the weapons with a surprisingly critical eye, wondering what will suit Morgana.
He looks at her hands as she gesticulates wildly while negotiating with a villager, steering well away from the greatswords in the hope of not snapping her wrists on her first lesson - they seem frighteningly thin.
He picks up a fairly simple longsword, weighing it in his hands and checking the blade - when he takes a look at the grip, it still seems pretty comfortable for a smaller hand than his; pretty comfortable - the calluses will still happen, and it won't be fun taking off her gauntlets for a while.
Speaking of gauntlets - hers aren't in the best state, actually. They seem to be half-falling apart, and are made of the kind of rough leather that suggests that they could only have been a farmer's - a smith would usually just refuse to work with material that low-quality.
For a minute, he wonders how he knows this, then, with a sardonic smile, he remembers that the Chantry raises their templars discerning.
He turns over what must be six pairs of them before settling on a pair from a light scale set. As he senses her curiosity about what he is doing, he pays quickly, with the money he's collected on his travels, and greets her.
She's surprised when she sees what he is carrying. "But you have perfectly good gauntlets already… Oh." She trails off as he passes them to her, the action enough to render her speechless - a rare event, though she often chooses not to talk - for a moment, her eyes lighting up like a child's on Saturnalia morning. "Thank you."
He just offers her a smile and, "Don't mention it. You haven't seen the sword yet."
She has regained her composure, it seems, and regards him with just a hint of anxiety. "A sword as well? Will I be able to carry it?"
"That's what we're going to find out," he replies flippantly, ignoring the worry crinkling her brow.
When they're back at camp, as she moves to go and change her splintmail, he calls to her, "Bright and early tomorrow, remember. Your lesson."
She glares at him, and he realises that he'd forgotten just how terrible that glare was.
Bright and early his arse.
It is early evening when they finally find a time and place.
The campfire reflects off the sword as he hands it gently to her, standing to her side and ready to help her and hopefully prevent injury. Her shoulders immediately slump as it nearly hits the floor. Maker's breath, it isn't even a greatsword.
She recovers quickly, manages to lift it a little way, but is still slumped.
Remembering his own training, he steps behind her and straightens her shoulders, ignoring her shocked little intake of breath as he does so. At least she isn't beaten if her posture is incorrect - templars don't look menacing enough for the mages with slumped shoulders, apparently.
"Bend your knees," he tells her.
She does, barely.
He shakes his head. "If you want to have usable arms in an hour, trust me. Bend your knees so you can take some of the weight onto them and your elbows as well as your shoulders. It'll help."
He thinks something changes in her, is triggered, at his words, and he's right - still trying to heft the sword, she tells him quietly, "You know who the last man was that asked me to trust him?"
He shakes his head, not sure what to say.
"Jowan," she replies, meeting his eyes, bending her knees and lifting the sword.
So what if an hour later she's writhing around trying to reach all the right muscles to heal? She can lift a sword now, and she is ridiculously pleased about it, no matter how hard she tries to hide it.
She's proud of the sword, too - she hasn't quite got the knack for polishing yet, which he'll have to teach her, he supposes, but she spends hours that night absentmindedly running a cloth along it while talking to Leliana, and when she sheathes it, it is done carefully, so as not to blunt the weapon.
He has to ask. "Why do you want to learn with a sword?"
She has become guarded again, but she lets a few words slip through, all the while staring into the campfire. "'It's easier. I... don't fight like them. Never will."
As he looks to the Tower of Magi in the distance, he thinks he has a distinct idea who "they" are.