(First part of a double update this week, don't forget to check out the chapter before this one if you missed it. Second part on Wednesday. Please check out quickascanbe dot com and follow me on Facebook and Twitter if you're looking for more, including a special essay this Friday)

The Tale of Beowulf: Reis

Reis Duelar was a war orphan of no notable lineage, but she made big waves in Gariland from the moment she first arrived. It was decades since a Dragoner had last attended the Gariland Magic Academy: not since the famous Bishop Bremondt, legendary scholar of the Glabados Church who had himself sponsored Reis' own acceptance to the prestigious academy. And because a Dragoner is a creature of many skills (not suited to any one particular Academy), she was tutored by experts all across Gariland. That, quite naturally, included Master Instructor Bodan Daravon, of the Military Academy.

When 12 year-old Beowulf Daravon heard his father was training a woman who could turn into a dragon, he charged into the spacious Ydoran training room upon which the Daravon Estate had been built, with its many huge blocks with runes of many properties. "I challenge you to a duel!" he shouted.

Young Reis, imperious even at 14, laughed at him. His father berated him, walloped him, and then banished him to his bedroom. So Beowulf shattered his bedroom window, scampered across the rooftops and down the gutters, and waited for her outside of the estate with a training sword in either hand, and two more on the ground for her to borrow.

It was evening when she emerged from the estate, her long hair sticking to her forehead with sweat, her loose clothes damp with her exertions. She walked towards him as though she didn't see him.

"I challenge you-" he began again.

"I heard you the first time," she said, and rushed towards him with nothing bare hands.

Within ten seconds, he lay crumpled at her feet. She smiling down at him, brushing back her light brown hair so it settled against her aquiline neck. "Well?"

Beowulf, one eye already slitted with a bruise as blood trickled from his nose, rolled to his feet. "Again."

Fifteen seconds this time, and Reis' high cheekbones were flushed, and her eyes blazing. "Well?" she growled, a little out of breath.

Beowulf rolled to his feet, ignoring the twinge in his ankle and the cut stinging on his lip. "Again."

A full minute this time. It was another two matches (five minutes and ten) before Beowulf admitted defeat (largely because he could no longer roll to his feet, much less stand up). It was an hour later, after his bruises had eased a little, that they shared their first kiss.

Reis was the first person he found who could keep up with him. No, that wasn't right: Reis was the first person he'd found who he struggled to keep up with. It was the race itself that was invigorating, exhilarating. He had exhausted so many friends who didn't share his passion. He had never found anyone whose passion surpassed his own. Who inspired him to run even harder then he spent his life running, in search of the moment that would turn him into a legend.

There was never enough time for one another, drive as they were, but they relished the moments they stole together, whether around the Daravon Estate or around Gariland and its orbiting Academies. Whether those moments led to fighting, kissing, or both didn't particularly matter to either of them: it was the thrill they were chasing.

A year passed. Her time at the Academy was coming to an end. His own time was set to begin.

"I won't wait for you," Reis said, her voice soft in his ear as he curled against her on the blanket they'd set up in the lea of a hill. The stars blazed above them. The night was beautiful.

"You won't have to," Beowulf said. "I'll come for you whenever I can."

Her embrace tightened on him, and his on her.