Daughter of the Sword

5 || Respect

HE MAKES ME RUN extra laps, determined to punish me for my outburst yesterday. But after a month of pushing me, it takes more than a few extra rounds to make a dent in my energy.

"Give me twelve more," he barks.

I pause for breath, bracing my hands on my knees, and then I'm up again, pumping around the room. I'm recovering faster—I can feel it. The energy tingles at my fingertips, but also in my feet, my legs, my core. The fighting strength Luke always raved about. "Like the world sings to your body, and your body sings back." I actually smile.

"Okay, stop," my trainer shouts. He stalks over. "What in the heavens could you be smiling about?"

I slow to a walk, heaving in breaths, my skin dripping with sweat. It feels like I'm glowing.

"Fine, you don't want to answer me? Let's shake it up." He gets down on the ground. "You need arm strength. Give me fifty push-ups."

My arms have never done a push-up in my life. The greatest lifting I do is carry my sewing fabrics, and perhaps occasionally a watering can. I get down on my hands and knees. I brace myself, and try to lower down. My arms give out and I drop to the ground with a huff.

"That's what I thought," he said. He turns around, aiming for his jug of wine.

The familiar warmth of humiliation flushes up my neck, and I stare at his back as he stalks away. I've truly come to hate that tone of voice of his. The smugness. I let out a grunt and reposition myself, lifting my trunk again. I lower down, then fall. I try again. And again.

My trainer stops. Slowly, he turns around.

I lower myself down, and push myself back up. "One," I say.

He walks back over. "Do it again."

My arms buck and shake, but I lower myself and push up. "Two."

I manage to get to five before my body completely gives. Dripping sweat onto the floor, I sit up and look at him, but he's already walking back to his chair, to the wine and grapes beside it. He sits down, eyes on me. Then he beckons me over.

I approach cautiously, waiting for the punishment. A scolding, perhaps. Or maybe he will finally strike me.

Instead, he offers me a grape.

For a moment, I stare at his outstretched hand, dumbfounded. It must show on my face, because he rolls his eyes.

"Just take it before my arm falls off. It's a grape, not a diamond."

The sweetness explodes on my tongue, and I close my eyes, savouring the flavour. "Thank you," I say.

He grunts. "I'll send for lunch early today."

~

Something changes after lunch. When the lords come down early in the afternoon, he sends them away, claiming he needs to focus. While his face is set in its usual sulk when he returns, his neck is flushed—no doubt from the mocking he just endured. And when it comes to exercise, he gives me a real workout to do.

"In combat, your core is your saviour. You need rotational action for the swing, and stability for defence." He hands me weights, and shows me the motion. "Four sets of twenty, then rest. I want a sword in your hand by the start of the month after next. And that means catching up on years' worth of muscle."

"Yes, Sir," I say, following his actions as closely as possible. Already wiped from the morning, my arms tremble and my legs feel like jelly, but I keep pushing. Whatever happened last night, it's awakened something in me, like warmth after a lifetime in the cold. For the first time, my body feels alive. And even in exhaustion, I relish in it.

As we wrap up for the day, he pauses. "By the way, my name is Beckett."

I wipe the sweat out of my eyes and look up. While his mouth remains in its familiar scowl and his eyes shine grey and hard like stone, he's looking at me, really looking at me, for the first time. "You already know my name, but... I'm Mera."

We say nothing more on the walk back to my cell, his grip hard on my arm, but having that small piece of him eases the tension inside of me. No longer a nameless commander. Beckett. The keys rattle as he jams them into the door and swings it open for me, and I step through. But as I move to sit down on my bed, he scoffs.

"That's what you eat for dinner?" he asks, gesturing to the bread waiting for me on a tray. I nod.

He shakes his head. "You can't train on that. Is it breakfast, as well?"

Again, I nod.

"If you want to actually gain muscle, you need better than that," he says.

The next morning, I awaken to a tray of bread—as well as porridge and fruit.