Eliza In The Flesh!: the swordmaster.

Eliza, despite her violent nature, was not a fighter. She wasn’t much of anything, but something about being a “jack of all trades” required her to pick up a sword and humiliate herself. “Again,” her instructor demanded. She called him “The Swordmaster” because she hadn’t bothered to remember his name. All she knew was that he was sent from Italy and was very expensive. She rolled her eyes at him, picking up her practice blade and got to her feet.

 

As soon as Eliza’s ego recovered, The Swordmaster promptly knocked it back down again. Her blade clattered out of her hands and she swallowed. “This is too hard,” she whined. “Again,” he responded. “Why?! I’m not good at th—”

“Again,” he replied more harshly. She scowled and made a mental note to get this man fired when they were done. Annoyingly enough, the only word he ever said was “again” and seemed to teach from there. 

 

This was one of the worst experiences of her life, and Eliza had washed dishes before. With her own hands! Clash after clash as she attempted to follow the pace. Listening to the rhythm of blades clashing together. A fighter she was not, but if there was anything she knew how to do, it was dancing. A battle of movement and flexibility. Who would outlast the other. 

 

Not her. She was, again, disarmed and had a blade to her throat. She swallowed sharply and felt the edge at her throat. “Again,” he said, stiffly. Monotony. Indifferently. “I’ve had enough of this!” she yelled, pushing the blade from her throat. “You aren’t teaching me anything. You aren’t saying anything. What was the point of even hiring you?!”

 

The Swordmaster stared at her, a mix of shock and dismissiveness. At his lack of an explanation or even a reply, Eliza prepared herself for another rant before she was interrupted. “You are a difficult case, Your Grace,” The Swordmaster noted. “What, because I’m a woman?!” She sneered accusingly, crossing her arms. He shrugged. “It is uncommon and normally unmannerly, but that’s not what I’m referring to.”

“Then what is it?”

 

He shook his head, sighing. “Before you begin to learn, first you must know how to listen,” he said. “So listen. Your sword is not the weapon. You are. Use that.” Eliza huffed. She wasn’t very big on overcomplicated philosophical ideals and what-not. Sensing her confusion, he further clarified. “Be resourceful. When your blade is at your feet, draw your hands instead.”

“You’re saying when you disarm me… I should punch you?”

He shook his head again. “For this particular scenario? No. I am here to teach you the art of fencing.” He picked up her blade from the ground. “But for future reference, Your Grace, it might come in handy.”

 

The Swordmaster shoved the sword into her hands, her irritated frown showing in the reflection. “Again,” he said coolly. Begrudgingly, she did.