One Word Prompts

Weak - A Moment

"Weak," he shouted, as their wooden blades clashed. The young hero crashed the ground her practice sword falling beside her. They sparred in the courtyard. The instructor, a grizzled man in his late fifties, wore no padding or armor, unlike his fallen student.

His student, a woman in her early twenties, grit her teeth as she hit the ground, biting back a yelp of pain. Her leather armor was scuffed and scratched, this fall only adding to the damage. Her helmet had been knocked a kilter. Her chin and palms were scraped from the collision with the ground, all bleeding.

"You hope to beat the Demon Lord like this?" he scoffed, disgust in his eyes. "Get up."

She collected her sword, rising through the pain, whipping the blood from her hands on her trousers and readjusting her helmet.

"Again," he commanded.

She leveled the wooden sword at her teacher, her feet sliding into position.

With a resounding THWACK, she was knocked to the ground again. Her back hit the ground with such force that the air forced from her lungs with the impact.

"Slow." He didn't temper his dissatisfaction with her. Didn't hold back his disdain for her or what she stood for. "Do you think your opponent will wait for you?"

She shook her head. "No, master."

"Then again. Faster this time."

...

"Sloppy!" the High Priestess slapped her fan on the table, interrupting the young hero's chant. The priestess was a birdish woman with a squawking voice. "Sloppy and slow. You think you can seal a demon with a weak chant like that? Much less the Demon Lord?"

The young hero lowered her head. They'd been at it for over an hour today, sitting there in the temple's library. But from the priestess's comments, it seemed she was worse off now than when she'd started.

"Do you think your sword skills will save you? Is that why you slack off here? Let me remind you, it is not for your sword skills that you were chosen as the Demon Slayer. Apply yourself. Memorize the holy verses. Maybe you'll survive."

The priestess spoke out of concern, not for the girl, but genuine concern for the world. Issues with her skills were objective. It was almost a refreshing change of pace over her sword instructor, whose hatred for the church and its magic bled into a hatred for her. But in truth, the lack of faith in her hurt, regardless of the source.

"Yes, your holiness," she said, her head down.

"Good, from the top," the priestess said, oblivious to the girl's feelings. "Concentrate this time. Pronunciation, speed, intent. All three are critical."

"Yes, your holiness."

...

"What is this?" her mother demanded as the young hero walked into the manor house, her sparring gear in a large duffel bag slung over one shoulder. It had been a hard fight to convince her mother of the necessity of sword training. Too many days had been spent sneaking the bag in and out, sneaking in extra practice in the courtyard in the middle of the night. It had taken a royal decree and an endorsement from the church, but she had finally agreed.

So, it wasn't the duffel that her mother objected to today.

She put a hand to her daughter's face, her thumb tracing along the cut on the girl's chin, a deep frown forming on her lips. "Who did this to you?"

The girl shook her head. "It was my own carelessness."

"Hmp," her mother snorted, her eyes flicking to the sparring gear. "More likely that brute you call a sword master did this."

The young hero didn't argue. It was true. Explaining it was her lack of skill and her teacher's short temper wasn't going to help. So, she stood still as her mother's eyes took stock of her body, catching the gauze covered hands and her bruised collar.

"I'm going to have a word with that man," her mother said. "He can't treat you like that. You're a young lady of the realm, prophesied hero of the known world or not. You can't be getting a tan or scraped and bruised. Who would want to marry such a ruffian?"

"Mother, I'm fine." She took a staggering step forward, sucking in the pain and the hurt and hiding all of it behind a nonchalant smile. She'd fought for the right to swords lessons. She was too weak to withstand them, but she refused to let her mother just take it away.

Her mother just raised an eyebrow, clearly not believing the statement.

"Really," she tried to assure her mother. "Please don't talk to the sword master." He'd only increase the brutality of her lessons if her mother went complaining to him. Only a weak student sent their mother to complain it was too hard.

"Fine," her mother finally relented. "Get cleaned up and changed for court tonight. I'll send a servant to fix your face." Unspoken was that no daughter of hers could appear before court with cuts and bruises. It wasn't elegant enough. Certainly, it was too unladylike for her mother.

"Yes, mother."

...

The night was late. She sat in her room alone, a single candle flickering on her desk. Her evening exercises were complete, she'd reread the holy verses she'd been assigned, the makeup her mother had spread over her face was washed off, the bandages changed.

All that remained was for her to lay down and sleep. To let the cycle repeat again tomorrow. If she were smart, she knew she would. If she had that strength of will, she wouldn't have thought twice. Instead she sat on her bed, a wood harp in her lap.

It was a weakness of will that she let herself be distracted by this. She was the chosen hero. The one destined to save the world from some unspeakably evil demon king. Her attention should be on preparing for that, preparing her sword and her magic skills to be ready for the fated day. Failing that she should listen to her mother, cultivate the skills of a lady. The proper use of makeup, the delicate skill in turning conversation, the light step of the dance.

And she would do her due diligence. She would not fail them, her teachers, her mother, the world. She refused to.

But in this quiet of night, with just a single candle as her audience, she would do what she loved.

Her fingers caressed the strings, plucking out a gentle melody. A moment of weakness, just for her.