Constantine (Daughter of War #1)

Chapter 13: Conflicts

A/N: Media - 'He Started It'; essentially Constantine and Gilbert getting pissed with each other.

Enjoy!

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I can barely drag myself up from bed when the bell sounds seven times. Despite the mattress being riddled with holes, it is soft and sinking—perfect for one who is weary to the bones.

Still, I prepare myself for the daily activities. While doing so, I run through the events of the night before in my head. It was uncharacteristic of me to engage in conversation so easily with another person. Even if Gilbert, with his impossibly friendly disposition, was the person in question. I'm not sure why I somewhat opened myself last night, but I felt...good. It was nice to have someone understanding a tiny inkling of what I go through. Yes, relieving myself of burdensome emotions is pleasurable.

Yet it sends a spike of fear up my spine: fear that I may allow myself to trust someone too much.

After I finish the task of dressing up, I fall back onto my bed with a thump, not quite ready to face the world just yet. Automatically, my hand worms under my pillow. My fingers close around the hilt of my knife. I pull the weapon out.

I unsheathe the blade grimly, recalling the fitful sleep I had. Nightmares had plagued me, forcing me to relive the visions over and over, pushing me to face my worst fears. As though that terrifying wasn't enough, Gilbert's visions seemed to meld with mine—they induced me to wake up in the middle of the night in a sheen of cold sweat.

I idly twirl the knife in my hand. I held onto the knife for dear comfort for the rest of the night, the cold of its hilt comforting. It gave me the illusion of safety, even if it is a ridiculously obvious replica of Miraterciel. Even the simplest-minded blacksmith should know better, to make the replica more...splendid.

No matter. I return the blade into its sheath and slide the knife down my right boot. I know that without it, I'll feel jumpy all day. At least with a weapon by my side at all hours, I feel better prepared.

It's with these messy thoughts that I attend the physical training session with Captain Eldric. Gilbert seems excited to see me, but soon notices the rigidity of my spine and the stiff tension in my shoulders. His excitement slowly wears off.

The captain decides to train us with the poleaxe today; I give an inward groan when he orders us to pick up the weapons. Ever since my accident a few years back, I usually give poleaxes a wide berth. I handle the weapon with fairly decent skill. Compared to Gilbert though, whose patron wields a battle-axe, I am like a drunken warthog—completely ungraceful.

Eventually, Gilbert pummels me to the ground eight times within the span of ten minutes. Sir Eldric grows impatient at my obvious incompetence with the weapon, growling out useful advice. The only problem is they're completely useless at my skill level. Although I have been Marked, the visions foretelling my opponent's next moves do not come, leaving me to rely on my unreliable skills. I thank the Pietists though, because while he is beating me with no difficulty, at least Gilbert is not entering the 'berserk' state. Otherwise King Terrell would have to start looking for another 'saviour' for the world.

"Constantine, you're not utilizing the haft properly!" screams Sir Eldric, just as I attempt to attack Gilbert with the butt of the pole. "It's for blocking your opponent's attacks, not for giving you the opportunity to trip yourself up!"

The words leaving his lips are like a prophecy. I'm so desperate to land a hit on Gilbert that I don't notice my own weapon being in the way of my footwork. Until I trip over it and fall face-first onto the ground. I immediately clamber back up onto my feet, spitting dirt out of my mouth.