TOSKA | Sihtric Kjartansson

𝐗𝐈𝐈.

BEAMFLEOT, EAST ANGLIA ( 886 )
— modern day Benfleet, England

"YOU NEED TO WORK ON YOUR STAND." Sihtric watched Zvora carefully as she tip-toed through the backyard behind the stables, balancing the sabre gifted to her by Thore in her hands.

"If you don't have a safe stand it will be easy for your opponent to knock you down," he elaborated, moving swiftly with his own sword in his hand as his blade parred Zvora's.

She groaned, listening to the sounds of metals clashing against each other when Sihtric moved his foot and pulled.

Suddenly Zvora was laying on her back on the ground, the air of her lungs pushed out and with the sabre clattering on her right onto the ground.

"Like this." Zvora looked upwards, seeing Sihtric standing over her and extending his hand.

She took it, the fifth time today in which he had to help her up from the ground — and the fifth time he had knocked her down. The first few times Zvora had thought that it would be easier, that she would be somehow naturally gifted.

It turned out she wasn't.

Holding onto the weapon was hard enough on its own, balancing its weight in her hand and then taking care of her stand — simultaneously paring Sihtric's attacks that aimed for her feet, again and again.

"It's not that bad," he told her when he saw the expression on Zvora's face, almost seeming apologetic about it.

"But it isn't great either." Zvora sighed, positioning herself again and holding up her sabre, the letters shimmering in the mid-day sun.

Sihtric didn't answer that, probably because she was right. She was no prodigy and she would never be, but Zvora was stubborn, a fact that could make up for the things she wasn't.

"Wouldn't it be wiser to rest for the day?" Sihtric glanced at the bandages around her hands, noticing the dark red stains that began to erase the white of the linen cloths. He had warned her that it would be painful but Zvora still had underestimated the amount of pain they would inflict on her while she would try to handle a weapon.

Every movement reminded her of those moments on her knees, of how her tears had tasted on her tongue — of the guilt that had infested her stomach again.

"No." She shook her head, furrowing her eyebrows and hardening her gaze.

"We go again."

Sihtric pressed his lips tightly together, disapproving of her choices but doing so nevertheless — arguing would bring nothing. Pain was a great teacher and if Zvora needed it to learn so be it.

"So what did you do wrong the last time?" Sihtric asked when he positioned himself again, raising his sword and watching Zvora who had taken her stand a few steps away from him.

"I didn't shield my legs," she answered, watching how he moved slowly and carefully, encircling her as if he was a wolf and she a frightened deer.

Zvora hated to be the prey.

"That too." Sihtric nodded, lunging forwards and meeting Zvora's blade along the way. He pushed his weight onto it, making Zvora stumble back and grit her teeth together as she tried to stand her ground.

"I didn't pay attention to my surroundings." This rather sounded like a question while Zvora still clenched her jaw, watching as Sihtric let go of her and positioned himself again a few steps away.