The Eagle and The Rat [Arno Victor Dorain]

IV - Tir Ami

The last week had been filled with nitpicking and minute adjustments, anything Maxime could latch onto and chastise Arno for. Anything Arno did, there was something wrong. It had became so intense that even his climbing skills were called into question. Then his form, his tools, his hair, even his walk.

Another grueling day came to pass. Maxime and Arno trained endlessly inside the training room of his cafe. She refused to hold back, leaving her underling a sweaty and tired mess.

Their wooden swords clashed together, leaving small splints and scratches over the long stick. Red marks covered Arno's back and chest, as he took hits from every side.

With a grunt, Maxime threw her sword to the side, using her foot to kick her spear upward and into her hand as if it were the easiest thing in the world. She advanced quickly, large steps throwing Arno off his groove. She swung her leg up with great force, kicking her student square in the chest.

He wet flying towards the ground, a weighty thud ringing out. Arno flipped his hair out of his face, using one of his arms to hoist himself up. He choked back a protest.

"You're terrible," she said, continuously spinning her spear across both sides of her body to keep her muscles moving.

She caught her spear with her left hand, a whipping sound meeting Arno's ears. Maxime placed the bladed under his chin, lifting his sweaty face to meet her. "On your feet, Dorian," she commanded.

He followed her instruction, knowing he'd be worse if he didn't. With on hand gripping his knee, he spoke. "I don't see how any of this is going to help me," he said with a grunt, gently sheathing his wooden sword.

Maxime did the same, hoisting her spear on the holster on her back. "You're fighting to not lose," she told him.

"Obviously."

"That's your mistake," she went on, unbuckling the strap that held her holster to her body. She continued to talk, as she removed every belt and weapon. "It's cowardly what you're doing. As much as I don't like you, I never thought you chicken."

Arno chuckled at her "teachings". Wasn't that the point? Not to lose? He knew the repercussions of losing. At the back of his throat, he could still taste all of his losses. They hadn't left him. They probably never would. "Well, what do you suggest I do? Give in?"

"Win," Maxime replied, "lay your weapons,... and all those layers-" The smooth fabric of her coat dropped to the floor, and quickly joining was her vest. "-Clearly you aren't ready to fight with weapons, so fight me with your hands."

He watched as her toned legs kicked her clothes and weapons to the side, nimble fingers stretched and cracked one another in preparation, sharp eyes following his own.

Arno did as he was told, stripping himself of every vest and belt. He paid close attention to the light tap of his father's watch hitting the floor. Now the two stood in only their pants and shirts.

Maxime had fought in less clothing before, and so had Arno in his short stay at the Bastille, but he certainly never went head to head with any maiden.

It wasn't that he believed that Maxime was any less capable than he was. (Quite frankly, he knew that she was more likely to survive than himself.) A hint of embarrassment shone through his chocolate eyes, as he noticed that Maxime went without any corset or stays, instead a long cloth wrapped around her chest, peaking through the now unbuttoned area of her shirt.

"What are you waiting for?" she asked. "I'm giving you the first chance to strike. On with it."

Arno coughed, getting himself in his fighting stance. "I feel like this is a trick," he said, watching her wide stance not change one bit.