Sparring with a Monster
Hazel’s bare feet padded across the cold stone floor.
She flexed her wrists, feeling the weight of the iron manacles there.
Between them was an iron chain, which led to the hand of her captor.
She’d gotten used to seeing through these eyes that weren’t her own and feeling with the fine, slender fingers belonging to someone of nobility.
Walking before her was the strange, winged man from the last nightmare. At least, he was a man in form, though his size and stature was somewhere between a god and a demon.
His raven-feathered wings were reminiscent of the storybook depictions of the mythical angelic beings she’d seen as a child, except for their color. The iridescent, oily black were unlike any known angel. Angel wings were almost always pristine white, sometimes golden, and rarely grey. Never black.
Wavy, shoulder-length black hair was pulled back in a sort of half-up, half-down fashion, presumably to keep the wild mane out of his face.
He appeared unarmed, though the realization brought her less comfort than she would have liked.
The only reason someone would go unarmed would be if they were lethal even without a weapon. Because they were the weapon.
The man paused and turned slowly to face her. For the first time, she recognized something about his face, but couldn’t pinpoint it. His eyes were black orbs, and they stared at her blankly as though under a spell.
Hazel, he said.
Hazel.
Hazel.
“Hazel, time to wake up. You’re snoring loud enough to wake the dead!” Bang, bang, bang. Someone pounded on the door. “Gods of Caelis, Hazel, please don’t make me come in there.”
When she didn’t respond, her bedroom door burst open, revealing a disgruntled Slaide, dressed in fighting leathers. Hazel shot up at the commotion, clutching at the soft comforter and groaning when her unwelcome visitor crossed the threshold.
She pulled the cover over her head. “Go away,” came a muffled demand. Her muscles ached from her hours on end spent learning to dance with Pim, and she was in no mood to get back to work.
“No can do, sweets. We’re doing some off-grounds training today. The trials are fast approaching, and I’m not sending you out there unprepared. Get dressed.” Slaide turned to leave. “Oh, and don’t make me come back in here.”
“Would a please kill you every now and then?” she asked.
“I don’t beg,” he said through a smirk, closing the door behind him.
The rain subsided around midmorning though the clouds remained, casting the realm in a somber grey.
Muddy puddles thwarted many a lady’s efforts to keep their skirts clean, and children peeled away from their caregivers to splash in the largest ones, consequences be damned.
Hazel smiled in spite of her own circumstances.
Before her, Slaide led the way, completely silent except for his boots squelching in the muck.
Hazel followed close behind him as though they were linked by an invisible tether.
It was strange, the way his presence both terrified her and made her feel secure—safe, even.
For better or worse, she began to ignore the warning warmth radiating from beneath her clothes.
It was clear more than a few castle inhabitants were wary of her, and several gave her the feeling they might cut her down where she stood if not for her escort.
And then there were the ones who would clearly devour her in another way entirely, undressing her with their eyes as she walked by.
Somehow, those were worse. Hazel averted her gaze each time, choosing instead to stare at Slaide as though taking her eyes off his back would mean her immediate demise.
Thankfully, all whom they passed gave Slaide a wide berth.
She caught whispers passed between the maids and servants.
“It’s her” and “Witch” were the most common.
But two young children gawked at her as she passed and claimed in not-quite-hushed voices that she’d killed people with her magic.
She laughed to herself, until she reminded herself it was a very real risk.
Truthfully, she could no longer consider herself harmless.
All because her mother was a witch and no one had thought to tell her.
After crossing the empty training yard, Slaide led Hazel alongside the path of wagon wheel ruts carved deep into the mud marking the comings and goings of soldiers and merchants. Before long, the sweet, earthy scent of horse hit her, and Hazel’s spirits lifted. Up ahead, the royal stables awaited.
They entered to the warm greetings of the animals as they nickered upon seeing visitors. An enormous black steed grew antsy, dancing in his stall.
“Hey, Phillip, easy boy.” Slaide approached the beast, speaking in a soft tone that didn’t fit his demeanor. He withdrew something from his pocket and the horse, Phillip, accepted it eagerly. Hazel was seeing Slaide in an entirely different light. As if sensing her attention, he turned to her.
“Do you ride?” he asked.
“I—yes. Well, I mean I used to every day as a girl.” Before we had to sell them to avoid losing everything.
She reached for the nearest horse, a chestnut brown beauty, and offered her hand. The animal nuzzled her affectionately, though he was probably expecting a treat. The inscription on the stall read Sorrel.
“Good enough,” was all Slaide replied as he continued tacking up Phillip.
“Which one will I ride?” Hazel questioned, glancing around the barn.
He smirked at her suspiciously, then returned to the task at hand.
“You can’t possibly expect—” I am not riding double with him. Absolutely not.
“Indeed, I do. And you can’t expect me to trust you on your own horse. Hop on, sweets, we’ve got somewhere to be.” He stepped back, offering her a hand up.
“I can do it myself,” she snapped. And she could, maybe.
As she approached Phillip’s side, his withers impossibly higher than she expected, Hazel perceived just how much she’d underestimated his size.
She tried to hike her leg high enough to reach the stirrup.
On the third attempt, she got her foot in the stirrup but wasn’t quite agile enough to pull herself up.
Her body stalled out in mid-air before she fell back down—only to be caught by Slaide’s firm hand.
He grasped her leg just below her ass, and she yelped as he hauled her onto the horse’s back with ease.
Sitting atop Phillip, Hazel scowled down at Slaide. “How dare you.”
“You’re right. Next time, I’ll toss you over his back like a sack of potatoes. And I won’t be as gentle about it,” he snapped before hauling himself up behind her. He adjusted his seat and his hard body press into her back as he reached around her to take the reins. It was very hot in this stable.
The ride was, thankfully, uneventful. Hazel would have considered it almost pleasant, had her company been anyone else. The scenery and fresh air, combined with the sights and sounds that came with being on horseback again, were a welcome change. I didn’t realize how much I missed this.
Even her locket remained relatively calm, maintaining the same level of warmth she’d come to associate with Slaide’s presence; somewhere between danger and not, as though the pendant itself couldn’t decide.
They arrived in a clearing among pines that reached for the cloud-laden sky, situated along a gently flowing creek. After they’d both dismounted, Slaide unsaddled Phillip and led him to the water. Hazel took the opportunity to stretch her legs.
When Slaide returned, he tossed a practice sword in her direction, and it landed at her feet.
“Something tells me we aren’t dancing,” she stated.
Wordlessly, he unfastened his cloak, discarding it into the grass, and then proceeded to roll his sleeves up to his elbows, revealing forearms tattooed a solid black, fading to his natural skin tone around the wrist.
“Pick it up.” He nodded at the weapon.
Hazel stared at Slaide. Slaide stared back, unblinking. After a few moments had passed, she broke eye contact first, sighing in defeat. Such a grouch. She stooped to pick up the wooden sword, gripping the hilt with two hands and the picture of someone who’d never used a melee weapon in her life.
The corner of his mouth twitched upward, making Hazel’s blood boil. Was she just entertainment for him?
“Are you going to tell me what we’re actually doing here?”
Slaide ignored her. “Widen your stance. More. There.” She complied, shifting her feet a little at a time. “Don’t lock your knees out like that. Good.”
He demonstrated a defensive stance, practice sword at a slightly upward angle before him, his feet planted just beyond his hips, knees slightly bent. Then he bounced with his knees a few times to show her the effectiveness of staying loose.
She watched his muscular form, admiring as he angled his sword in different directions, meeting imaginary blow after blow.
His feet moved so effortlessly she almost didn’t notice them as they skirted through the grass.
He moved more quickly than Hazel would have imagined possible, demonstrating just how skilled he really was. Showoff.
Slaide composed himself abruptly, halting the demonstration. “Anyway, that’s what it should look like. Takes quite a bit of practice and we are desperately short on time, but we’re going to have to do what we can.”
“First dancing. Now swords. What’s next, breathing fire?” She was getting whiplash.
“Can you? Breathe fire, I mean.” Hazel couldn’t tell if he was serious or not.
“Of course I can’t,” she said. “So, what is this, Slaide? We’ve been practicing. I’d like to think I’m improving.”
“You are.” There was no mirth in his voice.
“So? Why the scenery change? What was wrong with my lessons with Pim?”