‘Just two hours.’
It was what Aemilia kept telling herself as she stood on the darkening field and greeted the woman she knew by sight and name to be Tricia Celer, “Celer,” she greeted politely and inclined her head to the woman. One of her professors had recommended her for the extra training during the brief break that followed the graduation.
“Lapin,” Tricia gave a nod to her, but puzzled over the attire of the brunette before her. “Is this what you fight in?” Tricia herself was in spandex shorts and a crop top, her brown hair pulled up, and tennis shoes on her feet.
The woman before her was in a silk dress of burgundy and heels, of all things. In response, she simply slipped the heels off and stood with her toes in the soil, “One should be able to fight in anything,” was the answer, “it isn’t the best, but I did not have time to change.”
“You wear this to your classes?”
“I had dinner with my mother.” Aemilia always dressed nice for that. Her mother would consider it disrespectful if she didn’t. “I had no classes today. I finished my finals on Wednesday.”
“Ah,” strange girl, Tricia decided, “I won’t mind if you want to go switch out.”
Aemilia shook her head, “The only reason I’m here is because I have no endurance. It isn’t a lack of talent.”
Now Tricia raised her eyebrows at the girl before her, for girl she was in Tricia’s eyes. She spoke with too much confidence to be a woman, in her eyes. She hadn’t yet been cut by the world’s realities. Couldn’t have been. “Very well,” and so, Tricia doubted her in this matter of endurance. “Your preference is the polearm, right?”
Aemilia nodded, and Tricia picked up the wooden polearm she’d brought to the field, and handed it off to Aemilia as the woman let her purse hit the ground as inelegantly as her heels. She accepted the polearm, and watched as Tricia took up a sword instead. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”
Tricia had to resist the urge to smirk. “Yes,” she said with a smile.
Aemilia accepted it. She’d already studied the strategies known of Tricia from her past in the academy, and what Alcina knew of it. They were almost peers, after all, Alcina only a year behind. She wasn’t here to lose. She was here to convince Tricia that the training was unnecessary, because it couldn’t fix her problem.
“When you’re ready,” Tricia said, taking a couple of steps back to be out of immediate range.
Aemilia nodded, “I’m ready,” and she moved the polearm to have the sharp point down towards the ground. She would not move first. She knew better than that, she’d wear herself out against Tricia.
Tricia hesitated a few moments, but then overcame the uneasy way the girl’s eyes were making her as they just watched.
Tricia was fast—faster than most expected her to be. Still, her first assault was evaded, the tip of the polearm just barely lifted out of the ground as Aemilia stepped left. Alcina had also taught her that, with her condition, she needed to avoid anything unnecessary. Efficiency was the way to victory.
Tricia turned the way that Aemilia moved and raised her blade in an upwards, diagonal slash, but it hit the pole of the polearm. Aemilia twirled it, moving Tricia’s arm roughly with the movement, and then twisted the polearm so she could point the blade of it at Tricia’s neck.
There was a beat, as Tricia realized she would have been dead were this actual combat. ‘Oh.’ Well, that’s what she got for underestimating the girl, wasn’t it?
Aemilia lowered the wooden weapon and stared boredly at Tricia. “See?”
“Are you always this arrogant?” She had to ask. She was used to it, but it was rarely backed up.
“Only when I’m doubted.”
“Touche. So, endurance, you said?”
“Yes,” Aemilia nodded.
“All right then. Let’s see how long you can play.” And without warning, Tricia lunged. Now that got a beautiful reaction—blue eyes widening, staggering backwards, and a quick move of the polearm to guard. The wood clashed, but Tricia just moved forward, breaking away before their could be a deadlock and deciding to play full on offensive tactics.
~***~
Corbin Hawke sat in the bottom of the bowl in the lecture hall, feet on the table before him, and a growing pile of papers building. He was paying it almost no attention as he read his book. It was a story of King Arthur, but from Mordred’s perspective. Ever a fan of history, Corbin found himself also drawn to fictionalized histories.
“Mr. Hawke?”
‘Ugh.’ He looked up. “What?”
“When will our grades be finalized?”
‘I already know yours.’ Irksome brat. “All grades will be posted on the 22nd.”
“I know, but when will you have things finished?”
“The 22nd.” His tone said it all. Fuck off.
“Oh…okay, then,” awkward smile, “Have a good break, Mr. Hawke.” Corbin waved them off dismissively, his eyes going back to his book.
He just wanted this to be done with. He was supposed to be monitoring the students to make sure they didn’t cheat, but he clearly wasn’t doing that. He was just a glorified babysitter for this class. He wanted it done, though. Kayden was in town, and he desperately wanted to just flip the table, let the papers spill, tell everyone they were getting ‘C’s, and go see him.
They always had a good time together. Sure, they often got into trouble, but with the friends Kayden had, it never mattered. Connections were everything in this world. Unfortunately, connections also required grooming.
Otherwise, Corbin would have flipped the table, but the actual professor of the course would dismiss him from his services immediately, and then what? Then he’d have to go join the army, and he was not ready for that. Not when he knew Victor was getting ready for a war. Nope. Corbin was a confessed coward and he would stay that way.
‘Come on already.’ He wanted to groan as there were only a few left. One of them was his friend, which made it all the more frustrating. ‘Mik, come on. You know it doesn’t matter.’ Another was the paranoid cat, Brooke, and then there was the ‘beast’, Alcina, so dubbed because apparently her friend Aemilia was the beauty. It was more the fact Alcina couldn’t speak, so many thought her dumb.
Corbin was pretty sure that wasn’t the truth, but he didn’t know. He didn’t know sign language. Everything she did was in writing, and well, at least she was literate. Seemed to be passing. He’d probably grade her fairly; it was just her friend he didn’t care for.
“Would you all hurry up?” He complained aloud.
Alcina looked up and shot him a glare. However, she rose from her seat, took up her paper, and walked to him to turn it in.
~***~
“Atticus.”
The blonde man greeted the other familiarly as he stepped into the office of the philosophy department, where Atticus Lieven was holed up as a logic and rhetoric specialist. He let his back press against the doorway as he looked at the man at his desk, student papers piled up.
‘Oh, Cicero.’ He always saw Cicero there. He delighted in the fact that Cicero was now named Atticus—the name of Cicero’s best friend, once upon a time. He loved these little coincidences.
He loved the way Atticus raked his gaze up Victor’s suited form, as if he was pulling a sword up and through him. His smile was lazy when Atticus finally reached his face, “What are you doing, my friend?” They weren’t friends. They both knew it.
“Unlike you, Consul, I have important things to be doing.”
Victor put a hand over his heart, “You wound me.”
“If you had important things to be doing, you would not be bothering me.”
“Did you forget?” He so often did. For a man who knew so much, it was amazing what he forgot. “You and I have a dinner to attend with Lillian and Seth.”
Atticus blinked, evident confusion crossing his face, before he pulled out his notebook. His task-manager, as he called it, and flipped to the day. “Gods!” He cried out as he realized he did, in fact, have dinner planned.
Victor tried not to laugh. He succeeded in only broadening his smile. “Come on, Atticus,” he offered his hand, “The papers will be there tomorrow.”
“I have to at least finish grading the graduating class ones,” he dismissed Victor’s hand with gesture, “Go wait outside, it won’t take more than half an hour.”
To be kept waiting. This was always his way, though, wasn’t it? One shouldn’t force a consul to wait, but he did not want to leave without Atticus. It would be failing his mission, in some ways, to do so. He needed to talk with Atticus about his plans and convince the man to support them. That was going to be the tricky part. It always was. “Oh, very well,” he pushed away from the doorway, “You’ll owe me one of your teas for this wait, though.”
Atticus just rolled his eyes and then set them back down on the papers before him. He shuffled them, digging through the pile for those he needed to have graded before the graduation ceremony, to ease the minds of those worried graduates. He heard Victor starting to hum out there, and it instantly filled his head with the lyrics to the song.
‘Gods damn you, Victor.’ He grit his teeth, and carried on grading, occasionally hearing Victor call out a question to him, which always disrupted his train of thought. Those accursed dress heels also liked to click whenever they touched tile. Atticus felt so underdressed in his sweatervest.
How he’d love to throttle the Consul, or at least plunge his pen into the man’s neck.
“I don’t understand this joke about Sartre and authenticity.” Victor said as he glanced at a comic on the wall of the department. He did, but—
“For the love of everything, Consul! Let me work!”
It was worth it. Every, single, time. He could hear Atticus muttering under his breath about Sartre’s stupidity, and then heard him break a pen as he slammed it onto his desk.
It was what Aemilia kept telling herself as she stood on the darkening field and greeted the woman she knew by sight and name to be Tricia Celer, “Celer,” she greeted politely and inclined her head to the woman. One of her professors had recommended her for the extra training during the brief break that followed the graduation.
“Lapin,” Tricia gave a nod to her, but puzzled over the attire of the brunette before her. “Is this what you fight in?” Tricia herself was in spandex shorts and a crop top, her brown hair pulled up, and tennis shoes on her feet.
The woman before her was in a silk dress of burgundy and heels, of all things. In response, she simply slipped the heels off and stood with her toes in the soil, “One should be able to fight in anything,” was the answer, “it isn’t the best, but I did not have time to change.”
“You wear this to your classes?”
“I had dinner with my mother.” Aemilia always dressed nice for that. Her mother would consider it disrespectful if she didn’t. “I had no classes today. I finished my finals on Wednesday.”
“Ah,” strange girl, Tricia decided, “I won’t mind if you want to go switch out.”
Aemilia shook her head, “The only reason I’m here is because I have no endurance. It isn’t a lack of talent.”
Now Tricia raised her eyebrows at the girl before her, for girl she was in Tricia’s eyes. She spoke with too much confidence to be a woman, in her eyes. She hadn’t yet been cut by the world’s realities. Couldn’t have been. “Very well,” and so, Tricia doubted her in this matter of endurance. “Your preference is the polearm, right?”
Aemilia nodded, and Tricia picked up the wooden polearm she’d brought to the field, and handed it off to Aemilia as the woman let her purse hit the ground as inelegantly as her heels. She accepted the polearm, and watched as Tricia took up a sword instead. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”
Tricia had to resist the urge to smirk. “Yes,” she said with a smile.
Aemilia accepted it. She’d already studied the strategies known of Tricia from her past in the academy, and what Alcina knew of it. They were almost peers, after all, Alcina only a year behind. She wasn’t here to lose. She was here to convince Tricia that the training was unnecessary, because it couldn’t fix her problem.
“When you’re ready,” Tricia said, taking a couple of steps back to be out of immediate range.
Aemilia nodded, “I’m ready,” and she moved the polearm to have the sharp point down towards the ground. She would not move first. She knew better than that, she’d wear herself out against Tricia.
Tricia hesitated a few moments, but then overcame the uneasy way the girl’s eyes were making her as they just watched.
Tricia was fast—faster than most expected her to be. Still, her first assault was evaded, the tip of the polearm just barely lifted out of the ground as Aemilia stepped left. Alcina had also taught her that, with her condition, she needed to avoid anything unnecessary. Efficiency was the way to victory.
Tricia turned the way that Aemilia moved and raised her blade in an upwards, diagonal slash, but it hit the pole of the polearm. Aemilia twirled it, moving Tricia’s arm roughly with the movement, and then twisted the polearm so she could point the blade of it at Tricia’s neck.
There was a beat, as Tricia realized she would have been dead were this actual combat. ‘Oh.’ Well, that’s what she got for underestimating the girl, wasn’t it?
Aemilia lowered the wooden weapon and stared boredly at Tricia. “See?”
“Are you always this arrogant?” She had to ask. She was used to it, but it was rarely backed up.
“Only when I’m doubted.”
“Touche. So, endurance, you said?”
“Yes,” Aemilia nodded.
“All right then. Let’s see how long you can play.” And without warning, Tricia lunged. Now that got a beautiful reaction—blue eyes widening, staggering backwards, and a quick move of the polearm to guard. The wood clashed, but Tricia just moved forward, breaking away before their could be a deadlock and deciding to play full on offensive tactics.
~***~
Corbin Hawke sat in the bottom of the bowl in the lecture hall, feet on the table before him, and a growing pile of papers building. He was paying it almost no attention as he read his book. It was a story of King Arthur, but from Mordred’s perspective. Ever a fan of history, Corbin found himself also drawn to fictionalized histories.
“Mr. Hawke?”
‘Ugh.’ He looked up. “What?”
“When will our grades be finalized?”
‘I already know yours.’ Irksome brat. “All grades will be posted on the 22nd.”
“I know, but when will you have things finished?”
“The 22nd.” His tone said it all. Fuck off.
“Oh…okay, then,” awkward smile, “Have a good break, Mr. Hawke.” Corbin waved them off dismissively, his eyes going back to his book.
He just wanted this to be done with. He was supposed to be monitoring the students to make sure they didn’t cheat, but he clearly wasn’t doing that. He was just a glorified babysitter for this class. He wanted it done, though. Kayden was in town, and he desperately wanted to just flip the table, let the papers spill, tell everyone they were getting ‘C’s, and go see him.
They always had a good time together. Sure, they often got into trouble, but with the friends Kayden had, it never mattered. Connections were everything in this world. Unfortunately, connections also required grooming.
Otherwise, Corbin would have flipped the table, but the actual professor of the course would dismiss him from his services immediately, and then what? Then he’d have to go join the army, and he was not ready for that. Not when he knew Victor was getting ready for a war. Nope. Corbin was a confessed coward and he would stay that way.
‘Come on already.’ He wanted to groan as there were only a few left. One of them was his friend, which made it all the more frustrating. ‘Mik, come on. You know it doesn’t matter.’ Another was the paranoid cat, Brooke, and then there was the ‘beast’, Alcina, so dubbed because apparently her friend Aemilia was the beauty. It was more the fact Alcina couldn’t speak, so many thought her dumb.
Corbin was pretty sure that wasn’t the truth, but he didn’t know. He didn’t know sign language. Everything she did was in writing, and well, at least she was literate. Seemed to be passing. He’d probably grade her fairly; it was just her friend he didn’t care for.
“Would you all hurry up?” He complained aloud.
Alcina looked up and shot him a glare. However, she rose from her seat, took up her paper, and walked to him to turn it in.
~***~
“Atticus.”
The blonde man greeted the other familiarly as he stepped into the office of the philosophy department, where Atticus Lieven was holed up as a logic and rhetoric specialist. He let his back press against the doorway as he looked at the man at his desk, student papers piled up.
‘Oh, Cicero.’ He always saw Cicero there. He delighted in the fact that Cicero was now named Atticus—the name of Cicero’s best friend, once upon a time. He loved these little coincidences.
He loved the way Atticus raked his gaze up Victor’s suited form, as if he was pulling a sword up and through him. His smile was lazy when Atticus finally reached his face, “What are you doing, my friend?” They weren’t friends. They both knew it.
“Unlike you, Consul, I have important things to be doing.”
Victor put a hand over his heart, “You wound me.”
“If you had important things to be doing, you would not be bothering me.”
“Did you forget?” He so often did. For a man who knew so much, it was amazing what he forgot. “You and I have a dinner to attend with Lillian and Seth.”
Atticus blinked, evident confusion crossing his face, before he pulled out his notebook. His task-manager, as he called it, and flipped to the day. “Gods!” He cried out as he realized he did, in fact, have dinner planned.
Victor tried not to laugh. He succeeded in only broadening his smile. “Come on, Atticus,” he offered his hand, “The papers will be there tomorrow.”
“I have to at least finish grading the graduating class ones,” he dismissed Victor’s hand with gesture, “Go wait outside, it won’t take more than half an hour.”
To be kept waiting. This was always his way, though, wasn’t it? One shouldn’t force a consul to wait, but he did not want to leave without Atticus. It would be failing his mission, in some ways, to do so. He needed to talk with Atticus about his plans and convince the man to support them. That was going to be the tricky part. It always was. “Oh, very well,” he pushed away from the doorway, “You’ll owe me one of your teas for this wait, though.”
Atticus just rolled his eyes and then set them back down on the papers before him. He shuffled them, digging through the pile for those he needed to have graded before the graduation ceremony, to ease the minds of those worried graduates. He heard Victor starting to hum out there, and it instantly filled his head with the lyrics to the song.
‘Gods damn you, Victor.’ He grit his teeth, and carried on grading, occasionally hearing Victor call out a question to him, which always disrupted his train of thought. Those accursed dress heels also liked to click whenever they touched tile. Atticus felt so underdressed in his sweatervest.
How he’d love to throttle the Consul, or at least plunge his pen into the man’s neck.
“I don’t understand this joke about Sartre and authenticity.” Victor said as he glanced at a comic on the wall of the department. He did, but—
“For the love of everything, Consul! Let me work!”
It was worth it. Every, single, time. He could hear Atticus muttering under his breath about Sartre’s stupidity, and then heard him break a pen as he slammed it onto his desk.
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