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Posted on February 29, 2012 at 02:10:40 AM by tristan & celidon
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“Try and stay on your toes more,” Arthur advised his son as the boy was forced into a rather ungainly movement in order to avoid the latest stroke of his father’s sword. Tristan brought his shield up, and staggered away slightly off-balance without having landed a blow of his own. Inhaling deeply the Prince nodded, raising his green eyes up to meet with his Father’s grey, Arthur smiled. Tristan grinned. “You’re like me,” Arthur continued, as the pair circled one another, “we’re stockier, so we feel we can maximise the power we have by planting our feet. It’s tempting,” the King continued, “but it also makes us easier to hit. Movement is as important as power.” Arthur stepped forwards suddenly, bringing his sword down in an arch through the air. Remembering his Father’s words, Tristan stepped quickly backwards, bringing his shield up to parry the blow before following through with an upwards trust with his own blade. “Better,” Arthur smiled, knocking the blow off course with the tip of his sword, “one last try, then I have to get to my meeting, all right?” Again Tristan nodded, swelling with pride over his father’s praise as he planned his next move. Tristan swung out with his sword so that it passed Arthur’s body from right to left, bringing his shield up to protect his own exposed chest. The King met his son’s slicing action with his own blade, pushing it off course to buy himself time, before lunging forwards and bringing his sword down in another downwards arc. It collided with the wood of Tristan’s shield, and the Prince took advantage of the time that gave him to deliver a forwards thrust, forcing Arthur to jump backwards, and block the sword’s tip with his own shield. “Well done,” the King said, with a satisfied nod, as he re-sheathed his sword, “you’re starting to plan. That’s good, we are making progress.” Once his father had left the yard, Tristan collected his shield from where he had rested it against one of the courtyard walls, and lifted it back up once more. He kept the wooden chest his father had given him for his weapons and armour in the stable with his favourite horse, and so that was where he headed, whistling for Celidon to come to heel as he crossed the cobbled floor. His light brown hair was sticking to his forehead with sweat, and his green tunic had a few damp patches, thankfully they were mostly obscured by the armour which, like his father’s training set, ran across one shoulder and down his arm, having passed beneath a plate that was there to protect the collar bone. They had not used helmets on that day, for which Tristan was thankful. He had no desire to boil alive, and he had been training for over two hours. His arms full of shield, the Prince was forced to nudge open the main stable door with his foot, before he was able to slip inside to the anti-chamber beyond. It was square in shape, the floor padded with straw, three stables with horses in them lead off it, but the amply sized area which received Tristan was empty, save for his own personal tack, his trunk and... “Grayson!” The tone was one of delighted surprise, a grin formed on Tristan’s face as he made eye contact with his friend. Bending his knees, the Prince set the shield down on the floor for a moment, instead of heaving it onto its brackets on the wall above the trunk. “I haven’t seen you in ages!” the green-eyed boy enthused excitedly, “did you come here with Grandmother?” Celidon slipped into the room behind his fairy and trotted across the floor in his lumbering gait in order to sniff at Era in greeting. He would not have fitted on the hay bale, Tristan reflected drily as the giant green dog sat down heavily. “Sorry, I look a bit of a mess,” the boy continued in an apology, “I’ve been training with Father.” Grinning, the Prince unstrapped his sword belt, and handed the sword and scabbard to his friend, the glint in his eyes the only sign that he knew what the gesture would mean to his friend. “There should be a hook just by your elbow, if you could hang it up,” Tristan asked politely, “and would you mind helping me off with this armour? Some of the buckles are hard to reach.” |
for we were made of stronger things, the memories of soldiers, the children of kings |
 original image by Stefan Tell at flickr.com |
Replies:
- I WANT YOU TO REMEMBER THIS - By GRAYSON March 15, 2012 at 12:04:20 PM
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