Steel rang against steel as two longswords clash. Aren had parried a strike, and winds his blade to the other side, and drives it forward along his opponent’s blade into the gap in his armour at the neck. The other young man yelps in pain and falls back onto his rear as the blunted steel collides with his padded neck. Aren is on him an a second, kicking his sword arm away and pressing the tip of his sword into the same gap again. “I yield!” His opponent shouts, pulling his helmet off with a sigh. Aren nods to Daenir and offers him a hand up.
A clapping comes from the side of the arena in which they had sparred, both their masters stood there watching the bout, and Sir Elmir was clapping for his pupil. “Well fought both of you! Daenir, good use of the Stroke of Wrath, Aren, excellent parrying and winding.”
The two young men, both around eighteen years walk towards the edge, both with sweat drenched hair, and return to their tutors. It had been a fast paced and furious bout, as with the rest of those that day, and had ended the same. The two teachers take their students aside to speak with them quietly.
Aren looks remorsefully over Elmir’s shoulder, seeing Daenir being lectured by a frustrated tutor, the young man looking ashamed at his feet. Elmir was congratulating Aren on fighting well, pointing out good points as well as mistakes he had made that could have been taken advantage of by a more skilled opponent than Daenir. Aren nods, hardly listening.
Aren had fought his once best friend as he would any other opponent, with no mercy and unrelenting pressure. He would have refused to fight if he could, but he had promised long ago not to let emotions get in the way of his knighthood.
That promise had been the cause for friction between him and Daenir. When Aren had accidentally caused Daenir to fall from their small boat and almost killed him, he had promised never to let anything get in the way of his knighthood. Had Daenir died he realised what their behaviour had been, stupid and foolish. If he had continued on that path something else would inevitably have happened. Aren wouldn’t let that happen. He cut himself from Daenir, and spent all his time training, whether running in full armour through the fields or sparring endlessly with various training partners, or studying till he could barely think. Daenir didn’t understand, and had confronted Aren many times, always unhappy with the answer.
Aren still felt the desire to mess around, prank people, and cause mayhem, as they had once done together, but couldn’t be the one responsible for the injury of his friend, nor could he risk losing his knighthood. It was all he had wanted, and maybe then his father would be proud of him. Daenir thought it was a rejection of friendship, and turned bitter and angry and had confronted Aren on multiple times. Today was one of those times.
Aren was leaving the changing rooms at the training compound in the city, when Daenir confronted him, planting himself square in Aren’s path. “You could have gone easier on me.” He states bluntly.
“I could’ve, but then neither of us would have improved.” Aren answers, too tired for any sort of confrontation and tries to push past.
“Oh right as if that is what this is about. You hate me. Why?”
“I don’t hate you. You cut me off when I didn’t want to mess about and realised what was important in life.”
“I cut you off?” Daen asks incredulously, “you just lost interest in our friendship!”
Aren tries to shove past him, but is blocked by his once friend. “Daen, leave it. If you won’t listen I have nothing more to say to you.”
“That’s because you lie every time!” Daenir shoves back.
“I don’t! You just can’t accept that you are in the wrong! You need to grow up!” With that Aren gives him a hefty shove, and Daenir falls back away from him. Aren looks down at him with annoyance, “I learnt what was most important for my future, not what was most important to me now. I miss our friendship.” He says softly, and strides away.
The walk home took a long time. Striding through the city with head low and thoughtful, with no care for where he was going. He almost walks into people, walls, pillars, nearly tripped down steps, and trod in horse manure, but it didn’t bother him. He just wanted to get home, and swing his sword at a dummy till it was no more. Eventually, he arrives at his family’s mansion and barges past one of the servants on his way in.
“How was training Aren?” Comes his mother’s voice from another room.
“Good.” He grunts in response in the typical fashion of a teenager.
Another voice comes through, a gruff man’s voice, “Who did you fight and who did you beat.”
“Daenir every time.”
“That little turd? Not much of an achievement then.”
Aren sighs, he wasn’t sure if there had been a time where his father Logan had been proud of him. It was though he was just a walking and talking disappointment. He would get his knighthood though. Then, then he would be proud. He stalks through the house to the garden, where he attacks the dummy with a ferocity not seen in the arena, and leaves it in tatters late that night.
