by Sara Wolf
Safety. Comfort. A rest.
He hates his brain, sometimes. All the time. He hates that he’s ended up this way, twisted and incapable of even the most normal human things. Eating with others. Taming his knee-jerk reaction to take his food into some secluded place, like a terrified, insecure dog.
He’ll always be like this. He knows that.
But she doesn’t.
“New girl,” He exhales, unlocking the door and opening it again to apologize. But she’s gone.
Of course she’s gone.
Alistair steps forward, and hears the crinkle of foil under his boot. A chocolate. One of the ones from the morning buffet. It glitters in the sun, bright gold and cheery. He bends and picks it up, and that’s when he notices the scrap of paper below it, with his own words staring back at him in the worst handwriting he’s ever seen;
It helps. I promise.
15
The Duel (Or, How deeply a sword has to cut for it to be dangerous)
Okay, so. I can handle people being furious at me when I deserve it. But this time I didn’t, so. Jot that one down. And then I was ignored(!) when I tried to give a shit. Is he aware I don’t give a shit very often? Frankly, he should be honored. And nicer.
I’m quickly learning there’s nothing like a bit of casual archery to solve budding resentment issues.
“ - think you’re so cool,” I grumble, pulling the taut bowstring as far as it can go and aiming down the sight at the straw target a million miles away. “Too cool with your stupid weed leaf badge and hate-list and your prince cousins or whatever -”
“Better!” Ms. Soyon thumps me happily on the back and I’ve developed enough survival instinct by now to plant my feet before I go sprawling. “Very better from yesterday, Miss Pierce! You draw string with much purpose!”
“Merci beaucoup, Ms. Soyon. It’s this new thing I’m trying called Healthily Redirecting Frustration.”
She nods very seriously and moves on to demonstrate proper arrow setting technique to my neighbor, who’s somehow managed to slot it feathers-first. Which, honestly, is more than can be said for me - I might be doing better than yesterday, but I still don’t have the strength to both pull the string and hold literally any object.
Soyon’s off retrieving the spent arrows for the next round when someone in the blue sweatpants and white shirt of our ubiquitous gym uniform comes jogging up, breathlessly blurting something in French. I crane my neck and look past him - a crowd of gym uniforms writhes excitedly in the distance. Did something happen? I look to my other neighbor, who by my estimates only speaks half as much English as Soyon, but that isn’t really an issue because the single word he says in response to my inquiring look speaks volumes;
“Duel.”
A duel? Like, a swordfight duel? I glance around for Ms. Soyon, but she isn’t coming back anytime soon. My morbid curiosity combined with my morbid obsession with pirates since I was ten means I’m obligated to follow the guy and find out. I trot after him over the grass, towards the big circle of people who’ve gathered. There’s cheering, but unlike the whole thing with Gabe, these cheers feel brighter. And there are teachers watching. Which means it isn’t an actual fight-fight. The sound of clanking metal rings out, and I linger at the back of the crowd and peer in.
“Holy shitting Grail,” I whisper. “We’re really out here doing King Arthur at four p.m. on a Wednesday, huh?”
Two figures in black armor fight each other in the center of the circle. Well…’armor’ is pushing it. Most of what they’re wearing actually looks like padded hockey gear, except it’s a little tighter and smaller, and only on the torso, the forearms, and the shins. Both of them are clad in full-body sweatsuits, and both of them wear these big black beekeeper-esque masks completely covering their heads and faces.
And in their hands are swords.
Not foam swords. Not the little bendy rapier swords with the caps on the ends to avoid punctures. But full, gleaming, two-handed metal swords. And they’re beating the shit out of each other with ‘em.
“German longsword fencing,” I jump at Ms. Soyon’s voice as she appears next to me. She looks more pleased than mad that everyone in her class took off to watch a duel. “Very new sport. But students love.”
“This is…a class?” My eyes widen. Ms. Soyon nods, crossing her massive arms over her chest.
“Fencing is exercise. Usually, is Italian rapier. But on special days, is German longsword.”
“They’re gonna - ” I wince as the two duelers smash their swords together. The teacher holding a long wooden pole and watching them yells something. “Those are actual swords! They’re gonna cut each other!”
“Blunt blade,” Ms. Soyon insists. “Bruise, oui. Cut, non. Ah! The ribbons, too, so pretty. Lovely tradition.”
I follow her dream-struck eyes to the duelers’ biceps, where a ribbon is tied. One of them wears a blue ribbon, and the other wears red.
C’mon, Lilith. It’s just a color.
Thankfully, the feverish action of the duel doesn’t leave a lot of room to dwell. I squeal high in my throat when Red brings their sword down on the head of Blue, but at the last dizzying second Blue defends, tilting the blade sideways to catch the attack on their hilt. The clear, loud impact of metal-on-metal sends my ears ringing. The swords look super heavy, but they’re moving them so incredibly quick. They lunge at each other - not the agile tippy-toe lunges of the fencing I’ve seen in the Olympics - but huge, deep lunges with power behind them. It’s fast, but it’s also freaking furious. Their swords slam into each other, sometimes grazing helmets or torsos or arms. Almost every time a blade makes contact the teacher with the wooden pole yells something, and the two duelers immediately separate and set up for another explosive round.
“Blue is very defensive,” Soyon murmurs. “Red is very aggressive. Yet they are both skilled fighters. You see the feint, yes?”
She points, and I watch with her as the duelers position themselves for the next round. They hold their swords up - Blue holding theirs low and at an angle, and Red holding theirs high and wide. They move back and forth, faking each other out, and then Red makes a side swipe. Except it’s not a side swipe. Almost faster than I can see they cleanly stop halfway through and change to an overhead strike.
“There!” Soyon shakes her thick finger, beaming. “Feint.”
I suck in a breath as Blue reacts, holding their sword lateral over their face barely enough to deflect the blow. Next to me, Soyon sighs.
“Always, he is defense.”
He? Now that she mentions it, Blue is feasibly a he; under all that armor is someone tall and fairly broad, and Red is no slouch either - nearly Blue’s height.
“Are they both boys?” I ask. Soyon nods.
“Yes. But Monsieur Friedrich too pairs girls and boys. In German longsword, any can fight any. Muscle is important. Technique is more important.”
Just as she says this, Red gets a solid hit on Blue’s torso with his full blade, and the crowd cheers wildly. Blue doesn’t so much as flinch when it hits, but as the teacher calls for them to part he walks away rubbing the spot gingerly.
“Two points. It will hurt tomorrow,” Soyon chuckles.
“Blue’s getting his ass kicked, huh?” I muse.
“I would not be so sure as you.” Her eyes glimmer as she watches the two clash again. This time Red lunges in from the get-go, sword bearing down on Blue. Blue backs up, and Red follows, almost chasing him out of the white circle painted on the grass.
“Out is one point for enemy,” Soyon whispers to me, then claps her hands. “Oh!”
Blue makes an incredible save at the last second by ducking low, kneeling on the grass and pivoting with his sword aloft, the blade cutting clearly across Red’s torso. The crowd goes nuts and in that second I get it - I get the cheering, the size of the crowd, Soyon’s glittering excitement. It might be horrifyingly real-looking, but it’s awesome. They have to play mind games, make decisions in split-seconds and e
xecute them fast and well. It’s like every action movie come to life, but tactical and unpredictable and real. Even if they look like giant goth beekeepers doing it, the dire brutality of the swordplay speaks for itself.
“Blue is six points to Red nine,” Soyon says next to me, her wild hair practically quivering with anticipation. “Next point could end.”
“So it’s up to ten?”
“Yes. But head is four points.”
“So either of them could still win.”
She nods. “Moving for head is danger. Blue will never choose danger - not daring like Red.”
In the quiet before the next round, I watch Blue look around at the crowd as Red adjusts his gloves. The black beekeeper mask is completely impenetrable as it sweeps over us, but I think I see it pause in my direction - or not, because Blue quickly continues his sweep and Red finishes adjusting and then the teacher calls for readiness. Blue and Red wait like poised black lions, and then lurch at each other. Their blades ferociously slam together, locking at the hilt, and the teacher calls out something and they separate. But they don’t go back to their starting positions on the edges of the circle like they’re supposed to. Or rather, only Blue tries to. Red makes a lightning-quick lunge, aimed directly for Blue’s arm.
It’s over. It has to be. Blue isn’t ready. He’s half-turned away from Red - no way can he see the attack coming. Is that even legal? Attacking when you and your opponent are resetting?
There’s the shrill ring of metal-on-metal as Blue whirls and blocks it, somehow, blade pressed up against his bicep, sword-teeth embedded in each other, and the fighters twist and turn and grunt and suddenly Blue contorts Red’s empty hand behind his back and forces him to the ground, holding his own sword across Red’s throat.
An unspoken head-hit. Four points.
Blue wins.
The crowd fucking erupts. Cheering, whistling, shouting. It’s thunderous, vibrating the ground and shaking yellowing leaves out of the trees.
“Bravo!” Ms. Soyon calls, clapping her huge hands together. “Encore! Encore!”
Blue gets up from pinning Red, and their grinning teacher pats both of them on the back and says something. Red takes his helmet off, and Blue takes off his, and they reach their hands out and shake. Both of them wear satisfied, breathless smirks.
Ciel Lautrec wears the red armband.
And Alistair Strickland wears blue.
“Maybe this’ll teach you not to try a dirty trick in my general vicinity ever again,” Alistair says lightly, just loud enough to hear over the rapidly calming crowd.
“And maybe, just maybe -” Ciel laughs. “- This will teach you to take some risks once in a while.”
“No thank you,” Alistair wipes his sweaty face on the inside of his shirt. “I’d rather be alive than brave.”
“You mean you’d rather be a coward,” Ciel corrects.
“Not this shit again,” Alistair sighs. “You always get like this when the swords come out.”
“Get like what?” Ciel asks innocently.
“All romantic and drastic in the medieval sense. We’re not ten anymore.”
“Fine, fine. I’ll respect your wishes and stop trying to talk you into it. But it’s such a waste; you’d make a very dashing knight.”
Ciel’s smiling face is pristine, but a healthy flush dusts his obscenely high cheekbones, and his sleek gold hair is ruffled from the helmet. He looks like he just rolled out of bed. Or heaven. Bedheaven, up in the clouds. I could be there. I’d stand on the tiniest cloud a million feet in the air if it meant I could see his bed…no! Bad brain! Nasty brain! Are you gonna be rational and not-creepy or are you gonna make me get the fuckin’ spray bottle?
Turns out I’m not the only one who’s chosen creepy, because a handful of people in the crowd - mostly girls - call Ciel’s name, and he turns to them and smiles. He sees me, then, and his smile brightens as he waves at me.
Just me.
He likes us~ We’re getting married~
BRAIN!! PLEASE!!!
“You’ve got a weird way of showing respect -” Alistair throws his sword on the grass and starts un-velcroing his forearm guards with a particularly vicious gusto. “ - what with that strike from behind.”
“I was testing you.” Ciel unbuckles the armor around his tapered torso.
“Testing my damn patience,” Alistair grumbles. Ciel reaches over with one milk-white hand then and ruffles Alistair’s mop of wild hair affectionately, his silver eyes crinkling.
“If I catch you hesitating to hit me again, Ali, I’ll have to find myself another sparring partner. And yes, that is a threat.”
Half the girls in the crowd lose their shit - squealing excitedly. Why? Not entirely sure. But it’s a short-lived squeal, because Alistair throws a flat glare at them, and the girls quickly titter into silence. He looks fine now - tired eyes, dour mouth frowning, the usual. Whatever was bothering him in that room and making him so bristlingly angry, he clearly got over it.
The red ribbon around Ciel’s arm comes loose, then, the wind carrying it into the crowd. The ear-piercing squeals ricochet again, and the fans dive (actually dive, socks getting grass-stained and everything) for the red silk like it’s a lottery ticket or some shit. The French in their voices turns from excited to furious in a blink, and a boy and a girl come up shrieking at each other, clutching the red ribbon between them and playing a particularly vicious game of tug-o-war with it.
“Ah, desole, c’est ma faute.” Ciel darts over with an apology, the others unknotting themselves to let him through. He plucks the red ribbon from their slack hands with a smile and a wink. “That’s not for you. Not yet.”
My heart does a backflip (chill!) just as the bell rings, most of the crowd dispersing. The handful of shriek-happy girls stay, their eyes glued to Ciel and Alistair as they whisper fervidly and flash shy smiles their way. Number one and two on the ranking, indeed.
And then there’s me.
I’m frozen to the grassy spot. Watching Ciel and Alistair - it’s like watching brothers, almost. Like watching two people who have known each other forever. Why is Ciel friends with him? They’re nothing alike. It’s like a pedigree cat hanging out with a feral dog. Or pizza hanging out with brussel sprouts. Ms. Soyon grins at me.
“Good work today, Miss Pierce. See you tomorrow.”
“M-Merci,” I blink. “See you.”
I can’t wrap my head around it, not even as Alistair and Ciel pass me flanked by their squealing fans, who’re now insistently offering them bottled water and towels.
“Lilith!” Ciel pushes through them and trots over, and seven hundred broncos choose that moment to start bucking against my ribcage.
“H-Hey.” My smile probably looks like rigor mortis. Ciel doesn’t seem to notice such minor medical conditions.
“Could you find your classes easier, today?” He asks.
“For sure,” I fixate on his beautiful face and definitely not the ring of girls plus three boys behind him scrutinizing me to death. “I owe you another thank you. That whole ‘being not late’ tip of yours really helped.”
“I’m glad,” Ciel’s smile widens, and then his silvery eyes do. “Oh! Lilith, this is Alistair. You’ve met, I presume.”
“Regrettably,” Alistair drawls as he lopes up to us. He doesn’t look me in the eyes, frowning somewhere above my head instead. Is he still pissed at me for walking in on him? Ciel doesn’t pay his sour mood any mind, grinning back at me.
“Our families were close when they went to school here at Silvere. And they work together. My parents are fashion photographers, and his mother is -” Ciel stops himself. “Anyway, we’re childhood friends.”
“Friends?” I quirk a brow at Alistair. He rolls his eyes and corrects;
“Acquaintances.”
“That explains it,” I muse. “Much better than the theory I had kicking around.”
Ciel tilts his head, silky bangs waterfalling to one side. “What theory?”
&nb
sp; “That he was blackmailing you into being nice to him.”
“Who do you think I am?” Alistair shoots back.
“You’re unpredictable,” I chime. “And you know what they say; absolute power corrupts absolutely.”
“If I had absolute power you’d be back in the States learning how to knock before you enter a room, and I’d have a cappuccino and a bubbling hot tub at my feet right now.”
Not even a ‘sorry for snarling like a wounded animal at you for no reason’? I briefly consider flipping him off, but I catch Ciel’s eye and force a smile at Alistair instead.
“It’s never too late to keep dreaming.”
“If engaging in pithy conversation with you is my dream, I’d hate to see my nightmares,” Alistair scoffs. “Not that I have either of those.”
“Well Ali, if you didn’t stay up until all hours of the night, you might be able to fix that problem.” Ciel chides him good-naturedly. Alistair shoots him a flat look. Prickland does have thin grayish circles under his eyes. I was too busy avoiding his face before now to notice. Is that why he always sounds permanently exhausted? Insomnia? And here I was, thinking it was a terminal case of teenage ennui.
“And if you kept your nose out of my business, Ciel, we might actually be as good of friends as you say we are to total strangers,” Alistair grumbles. “We’re going.”
He turns and strides across the lawn, Ciel chuckling after him. “Sorry about him, Lilith. He takes some getting used to. I’ll see you later, yeah?”
I can barely form a ‘bye’ before Ciel’s gone, catching up with Alistair eagerly and elbowing him in the ribcage. Alistair brusquely brushes him off. Ana wasn’t quite right - Alistair has one sort-of friend, at least. And it’s the guy I…
My whole body goes hot and I stick my tongue out. ’Like’ is too strong a word. And admitting I like him at all, even in my head, means I lose, right? It feels like I’ll lose. But lose what, exactly? My dignity? Some invisible tug-o-war with that gleeful little bastard Cupid? I can’t admit to myself I like him, or I won’t be able to hide it, and guys like it when you play hard to get. Or at least, that’s what everyone says. Why - I shake my head so hard my hair comes loose out of its braid - why am I giving an ounce of a shit about what guys like? Even if I like someone, I’ll never be able to trust them. Enough to touch them. To have them touch me. Anybody can be anything, deep down.
