Signe held the sword, a real sword. She held it real tight; she held the sword like a secret.
Alekke moved to the edge of the yard, arms crossed, and his jaw clenched. The mud on him made him look like he was swallowed by the earth and then spat back out, like gross food.
"You're holding it kind of tight," he said, voice flat.
She huffed a laugh from her nose. "No, I'm not. What are you talking about?"
Alekke didn't answer. Just watched her fingers and blade; she wasn't trembling, she wasn't trembling at all. She looked like she belonged with it.
Signe stepped forward, her boots sinking very slightly into the churned-up yard. Her braid swung behind her, the blue ribbon mocking him.
She squared her stance and adjusted her grip.
"Wait! Signe, move your right leg a little left; you're a little bit off balance. Just a tiny bit." Alekke said, gesturing.
She slowly shifted her right foot. "Better?"
"Now move your left foot just a tiny bit to the right." He said, gesturing again.
She shifted her left foot. "Alekke, this feels… kind of awkward now…"
Alekke studied her for a while. "That's just the first step. You have to keep at it, and eventually it won't feel awkward." He chuckled. "You know what they say… The Crownlights of Velbrun weren't built in a day."
"Uh-huh…" Signe said, growing a little suspicious.
Alekke scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking to the sword again.
"Alright. Now bring it up, and, uh… um…" He stayed frozen for a moment recollecting. "...Diagonal guard. And bring your elbow in."
Signe moved, slower this time. More unsure, more questioning.
Alekke nodded like he knew what he was looking at, but something in his chest tightened briefly with a very unpleasant feeling. Alekke filed it away.
Signe held the pose, waiting. The sword was heavier now. Her feet felt wrong. Her shoulders ached instinctively, and Alekke's eyes narrowed.
"Stop shifting like that," he said. "You'll throw yourself off your center, and you'll tumble yourself into the muck."
"But I—"
"Ah, Ah, Ah!" He sharply interrupted. "No excuses."
She froze, then nodded once. "...Okay."
Alekke stepped back, crossing his arms again. He didn't notice her tightened jaw, or maybe he did and chose not to. "Now… try hitting the dummy."
Signe swung. The blade hit the dummy with a dull but not pathetic sound.
Alekke watched, arms crossed tight, very, very tight.
Signe's hit was awful. But not pathetic. No, not like his.
It had weight. It had direction. It meant something. It was worth something, even if it had landed crooked. Even if it was like a sloppy drunken kiss in a joyfully drunken party. It was better than anything he had managed in however many hours he'd stood in the yard beating the dummy.
The dummy rocked. Just a little. A shiver.
Signe stepped back and exhaled. Not triumphant. No smiles and no laughter, no accompaniment. She frowned.
It was nothing, but it was everything.
Alekke stared at it, glaring at the treacherous and stupid, stupid dummy. It had betrayed him.
"Alekke?!" Signe shouted.
"...Huh? W—W—What?" He said, with an even more unpleasant feeling crawling around in his chest. A cold sweat wrapping him
"Are you well? You looked like you saw Zahr'Ghul." She said, chuckling, but without any of the comedy. "Anyways, how did I do?"
Alekke blinked. "…err… Well done, that was good!" he said, clapping.
Signe stayed silent for a moment. "Are you sure…? That felt kind of…uh…lackluster."
She looked down at her feet, then back at the dummy. "I don't know. I think it might've felt better before. The first stance I did. Before you told me to change it."
Alekke's jaw twitched. "No," he said, too fast. "That one was off… You would have fallen over with how far you were leaning."
She frowned. "You're being strange, Alekke." She tilted her head, studying him now. "When I caught you earlier, your stance was horrid. Now you're correcting me like an expert?"
His breath hitched, and his eye twitched.
"I—" NO! Abort!
He took a deep breath to calm himself. "I just want to help you; I'm trying to give you a boost. If you're going to do it, you might as well do it right, eh?"
Signe didn't answer. She just looked at him, trying to understand him. "Your dumb boost isn't helping." She turned. "Watch."
She reentered her previous stance, before all the corrections and the adjustments. Her feet found the clingy earth this time more sure. Her shoulders dropped in alignment. The sword rose, not like a tool, but a limb.
Alekke watched.
Signe moved.
The blade cracked against the dummy with a sound like a snapped bone. The post groaned. She wasn't as strong as Brynn or Haldrean, definitely not better than the both of them, but she was fast, incredibly fast.
This time the dummy didn't shiver. It shook.
Alekke flinched.
Signe turned, flushed. "See…?"
He didn't answer. The books lied.
All those knights, so shiny and noble, eyes so full of greatness, chivalry, and purpose alike. He mimicked their stances. Held the sword like they did. Stood like they did.
Why was it not working for him? Why can Signe, Haldren, and Brynn look like them but not him?
The books lied, and they never told him about this unpleasant feeling that keeps returning whenever he sees her gripping the sword.
They lied. The books lied.
"See?" she repeated, stepping toward him now, sword still in hand. "That felt right. That was better, right? Want to learn? I'll teach you! We should hurry, though; the sun's setting."
Alekke's throat clicked. He looked at the sword, then at her. Then he stepped forward.
"How are you not winded?" he muttered louder. "Not a twitch of joy. Not a twitch of excitement. You swing once and it lands—perfect. Like it was destined to."
Signe blinked. "What?"
"You're not even winded," he repeated, louder this time. "You swing once by yourself---BAM!--- it's perfect! But when Alekke comes into the picture, it's awful, it's horrid, it's pathetic, it's an abomination!"
Signe's brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"
"Don't act dumb." Alekke snapped.
Signe's eyes narrowed. "I'm not acting anything. Gods, what's your problem!?"
Alekke's jaw clenched. "I don't have a problem!"
Signe stepped in, close enough that the tip of her sword nearly brushed his boot. "Then why are you shouting!?"
He couldn't answer. He didn't know why, but the unpleasant feeling kept coiling and tangling like a serpent. It felt like it was taking control of his body.
Signe didn't back down. "You're not making any sense," she said. "Why are you so mad? Talk to me."
Alekke's hand curled into fists. He couldn't answer again.
"Talk to me, Alekke…"
He looked at her. The mud on her boots, sweat on her brow, sword still in hand. And something in him snapped.
He shoved her. Hard. He was weak and frail, but it hurt Signe, and it was enough to say "Shut up" without saying it.
Signe stumbled back, caught herself, and stared at him. Her mouth opened, but no words came. Her chest rose and fell, fast. Her fingers flexed around the hilt of the sword. Then she dropped it.
He had committed a mistake, a big mistake, a deathly mistake.
She stepped forward, and before he could speak, before he could even breathe.
Signe tackled him.
They hit the mud with a thud, a wet, sucking impact that sent muck flying in all directions. Alekke's back slammed into the ground, and Signe was on top of him, fists swinging, teeth bared like a wolf.
"You don't get to shove me!" she shouted.
"Just shut up and get off!!"
He grabbed her wrists and tried to twist her off, but she was fully Skjoldr, not a half-born bastard like him; Skjoldrs were strong. Her knee pinned his thigh, the braid slapped across his face, the blue ribbon now soaked with filth.
"Get off! Get off!! Get off! Go away!!" He spat, his voice cracking.
"What the hell is wrong with you?!!" She screamed, shoving his face into the mud.
He bucked, rolled, and they flipped. He was now on top trying to pin her down. But she clawed at his collar, yanked him down, and they tumbled again, slapping and hitting each other, limbs tangled, breath ragged.
"Alekke, stop!!" she said, pinning his shoulders down, hesitating whether to hit him or not.
"Shut up!!" He said, slapping her face hard.
Mud smeared across their faces, their clothes, and their arms. It got in their mouths, their eyes, and their ears. It was everywhere. The yard was transformed into a battlefield, and they were two wild creatures in it, grunting, snarling, slipping, striking.
Signe elbowed him in the ribs. He gasped, shoving her shoulder. She grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked it. He yelped, twisted and they rolled again, landing hard, shoulder to shoulder, panting.
"Just Stop!! Why are you being like this?!" She hissed, hesitating to punch his face; this time she did.
"Urgh...!" Alekke's head snapped sideways with the punch. His vision blurred for a second, and the taste of iron bloomed in his mouth.
"Answer me!!"
He didn't respond. He didn't even know what to say; maybe it was because he was jealous. Envious. Who knows? He does. Alekke does.
Signe sat up, straddling his chest, fists clenched, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. Her face was streaked with mud and sweat, her braid was half-unraveled, and the ribbon was hanging on for dear life. Her lip was bleeding. Her eyes were wild as always.
Alekke lay beneath her, breath shallow and fast, his chest rising against the weight of her knees. Mud clung to his face in thick streaks, smeared across his cheekbones and jaw, his hair plastered to his forehead in wet and tangled strands. His nose was red and pouring out blood onto his pale cheek like blood on snow. His lip was split, blood mixing with the grime on his chin. His arms were pinned in the muck, fists clenched, trembling. His storm-blue eyes locked on hers.
"Haa…"
"Haa…"
"Haa…"
"Haa…"
Skjoldr's stamina was unmatched all throughout Kaldrana, honed by the thin air and brutal winds of spring in Rimefell, a mountain stronghold, where even breathing was a test of strength.
It was said that a Skjoldr could march for three days without food, sleep, or complaint.
However, Alekke's and Signe's breaths were unending, shallow, ragged, relentless. Their chests rising and falling, refusing to be still.
Signe's body trembled above him, her breath rasped in her throat, and her eyes had nowhere to go but his.
Alekke blinked, mud stinging his lashes. He felt like a cracked pot, barely holding together.
"I hate you," Signe whispered, but it didn't sound like hate. "I hate you so much."
Alekke swallowed hard. "Then get off me."
She didn't move.
"I said get off, I want to go sleep…" he said, a bit louder.
Still, she didn't move.
Instead, she leaned forward, just slightly, her face inches from his. Her breath hit his cheek, hot and uneven. Her lip trembled; she was about to cry, trying to hold it as hard as possible.
But she didn't cry. Alekke would have, because he is weak. She wasn't.
Her eyes were glassy, but no tears came. Just that wild look. She was strong, so strong.
Alekke hated it. Hated it so very much. Hated it…
The unpleasant feeling returned, and it was worse.
He had lost his first battle, and he started to tear up.
Alekke turned his face to the side, pressing his cheek into the cold mud, trying to hide the tears before they could fall. But they came anyway; tears fell no different from muck.
He bit down on the inside of his cheek to stop the sob clawing its way up his throat.
Signe didn't move. She stayed there, straddled.
The sob finally escaped. "...I—I didn't want to lose… It's such an… u—unpleasant feeling…!"
She still didn't move. Just stayed there, not knowing what to say.
Then—
"ALEKKE!!"
The voice blared across the yard like thunder.
Signe flinched. Alekke froze.
Boots squelching through the mud. A figure stormed into view: Maerla, the head servant, her apron soaked, her sleeves rolled to the elbows, and her face furious.
She didn't spare Signe a single glance.
"You filthy little bastard!" she hissed, seizing his ear with a grip like a giant. She was big and tall. "Rolling in the mud like a mutt, brawling with Skjoldr blood—have you lost your godsdamn mind?!"
Alekke yelped as Maerla twisted his ear, her calloused fingers like steel clamps. She hauled upright with a grunt, and he stumbled, his knees buckling beneath him as the mud sucked at his boots.
"Maerla—OW!" He gasped, trying to keep up, slipping and staggering as she dragged him toward the keep. "You're hurting me—stop—OW!"
"One more word," she growled, "...and I'll tear out that tongue of yours with my bare hands."
Signe stood frozen, still in the muddy yard.
"I—I'm sorry—OUCH!"
"What did I say, huh?!" She spat, smacking his head with her hand. "I said no talking!"
Maerla didn't slow. If anything, she yanked harder, dragging Alekke through the muck. His feet barely touched the ground, slipping and skidding as he tried to keep up, his breath hitching with every jolt.
"You think Lady Elin will be moved by your pitiful sniveling?!" She snarled.
Alekke winced, his face burning hot. "Please, Maerla—please don't tell her—!"
She stopped cold into her hip with a grunt.
"You expect me not to tell her husband's stray brawled with her beloved daughter! Bashing her beautiful face! Heh! You'd be lucky if your punishment was solely execution. O' how I pity you so, Alekke."
"Please…! I—implore you—OOF!"
She smacked his head with her heavy hands, letting go of his ear, instead tugging his hair.
"AGH…!!" He cried out in pain from all the bruises and, of course, his hair getting tugged.
Maerla stood still, looking back at Signe, her expression softening and more concerned, like a mother to her hurt daughter.
Signe flinched and dropped the sword as naturally as possible.
"Young lady, please go see the remedant for your wounds; I'll b—"
"...Ow… Please let go… it's hurting me…"
"QUIET YOU!!" She tugged hard, like his hair was a horse rein.
He winced from the pain—the pain that felt like a god of strength was clutching for dear life on his strands. Regardless, he stayed quiet; it's always better to stay quiet.
Signe flinched, and all she could do was just give a nod.
Maerla gave a curt nod in return, then turned her attention back to Alekke, her face contorting with disgust and anger alike. She resumed her furious march.
Alekke stumbled, his scalp burning, his vision drowning in sadness. The keep loomed ahead, and its gray walls were demons all around. Demons. Commanded by Zahr'Ghul himself. All laughing at him, chanting: Death! Death! Death!
Everything around him had transformed into a devilish creature, everything so blighted and wicked.
Maerla looked no different from Zahr'Ghul; she was the commander.
Her boots slapped through the stone corridor, each step a thundering rage. Her grip on Alekke's hair was merciless, yanking him around.
"Goddamned little wretch," she snarled. "What the hell's the matter with you…huh?!"
She didn't want an answer.
"Picking fights with your betters? With Skjoldr blood? What in the world were you thinking? Are you an idiot!?" She yanked his head down as she marched, forcing him to stumble forward on his knees before dragging him upright again. "Every day I see you skulking around, and I ask the gods, 'Why would Lord Skjoldr bring a bastard? A man of honor, of iron, of snow. A man I've known since he was just a boy. Why? Why would he cause such a fracture in the family? Why would he bring his beloved so much pain and grief after he'd been gone for those eight months? What madness possessed him to birth such discord?" Maerla's voice rose with every word.
Why would he know?
"You Alekke… You are lesser than even the lowliest bastard. And I had begun to tolerate you."
Alekke's breath hitched. Somehow more tears fell from his tiny eyes.
Did he really cause such a problem? Haldren and Brynn get into fights so often it's become a job for the servants; the fights sometimes are so bad they go to the remedant all bloodied.
But no one dragged them through the halls like this.
He questioned why, but he knew why.
Alekke blinked through the blur of tears, his face burning and his hearing becoming drowsy.
Alekke's legs trembled beneath him. The corridor here was quiet, lined with tall windows and heavy tapestries with angels of the seven gods or just plain devils—he couldn't tell anymore—pictured onto them.
As they walked forward to the darkwood door of doom, he recalled a time when he was five and he saw his first dead man. He was out in the yard; there was a crowd forming at the gallows. He couldn't care less and just continued reading his book, and at the time, he had no idea what they were for. Up top on the gallows was a man wearing a mask, his grip on the lever, never once looking away from the lever.
All of a sudden there was a ruckus, a loud begging. He couldn't remember what was said, but a man dragged by three men was begging for his life. Once he reached the top of the gallows, they put a mask over his head, then wrapped a rope around his neck, and he begged and begged; he wept and screamed. Then the man holding the lever pulled it, and the hanged man went from screaming to struggling, struggling to breathe, and struggling to think; he flailed and flailed and flailed endlessly. He could not even use his own hands to try and maybe ease the pain. Shortly after, silence. Just silence.
It was sad. Alekke didn't know what the man did to go out so horribly, to where even in his last moments his face was covered and unknown, and shortly everybody except the executioner just left even while his body just hung there pitifully being played around with by the wind. But it caused such an unpleasant feeling in Alekke; he had a strange relationship with death—an unpleasant but disobedient one—but the feeling was telling him, "A single order from your father and it'll be you who'll be the hanged man. So watch yourself, bastard." once the feeling told him that, and he looked up, he saw the executioner staring at him, and it freaked Alekke out, so he ran to his room and cried.
They stopped before a tall, darkwood door carved with the Skjoldr crest. He could practically smell Lady Elin's scent.
Maerla rapped her knuckles against it, three sharp knocks that each chanted: Death! Death! Death!
A pause.
Then a voice within, composed and unknowing: "Enter."
Maerla didn't wait. She shoved the door open and dragged Alekke inside.
Lady Elin stood near the hearth.
"My lady," Maerla said, bowing stiffly. "Forgive the intrusion. But I bear bad news of your daughter. And… him."
Lady Elin's eyes flicked to Alekke, the usual frown taking place, then back at Maerla. "...Speak."