Shade

September 2nd - After Class

Two students stood atop a grassy hill just beyond the grounds of Whedon

Academy. Wind swept over the tall grass which cascaded like waves in the ocean,

rhythmic and peaceful, bathed in the warm hues of evening light.

Rory inhaled and filled her lungs with that heavy end-of-summer air. She felt

calm and relaxed gripping the hilt of her new finely polished blade. It was a real

weapon - forged of iron - unlike the blunted training clubs they were forced to use last

year. Despite that, it didn’t feel quite right in her hands yet; it was heavier than she

expected.

Creighton stood across from Rory on the west side of the hill. She could tell he

too was relaxed as he fiddled with his new pair of twin dirks—also iron—and eager to

put them to a real test. His stance was half-cocked and his body turned. Creighton

gestured, dropping the blade in his right hand, mocking her. The perfectly weighted

knife cut into the dirt, standing upright, marking a line in front of him.

“You’re an asshole Creight.” Rory smirked as she spoke. “You ready?”

“Of course I’m ready, I’ve been standing over here for like twenty minutes

watching the sun go down. Are you ready?” said Creighton as he made a cutting

gesture across his neck with his free hand.

 Rory shifted the sword between her hands, shrugged off her uniform blazer,

and started towards Creighton. The iron flashed in the sunlight as she rushed across

the hill. A surge of adrenaline filled her blood and she couldn’t help but smile.

He stepped away from the knife embedded in the hill and started circling it,

with his eyes fixed on Rory as she approached. Slowly, she fell into a proper stance

herself, stepping in the same direction as Creighton. They became locked in a careful

dance, measuring one another and moving in step. Rory raised her weapon into a

defensive position. Feinting an attack from the left, Creighton twisted his body to the

right. Rory flinched and attempted a parry until she realized that she’d been fooled.

Their figures cast long, stark shadows over the hill which pantomimed their

movements.

Growing impatient, Rory stepped in and kicked Creighton's knee with her heel,

knocking him off balance. He caught himself and sprang up to deliver a receipt of his

own. The dagger flicked at Rory’s cheek, the arc intentionally wide and she caught it

on her crossguard.

A whining sound of metal on metal echoed above the hilltop.

With a flick of her wrist, she twisted his dagger out of her face and struck his

chest with her free hand. The wind picked up at that moment as if it were the air

leaving Creighton’s lungs. He cursed and staggered back from the blow, distancing

himself from Rory. A few seconds after, he dove towards the knife that was left in the

ground behind them.

 As urgently as he reclaimed the knife, Rory was behind him, slashing, and

cutting. With a sly deftness, he quickly moved out of the way, dodging every attack.

One of the tails on his uniform jacket got caught in a narrow miss.

“The hell… You tore up my jacket! Ol’ Nan’s going to be pissed when I tell 'er

whose fault it is.”

“You’re the one who wanted to spar. Should’ve been smarter. You don’t see

me wearing a jacket. Too bulky.” Rory replied.

Huffing and puffing in jest, Creighton squinted his eyes, smiled, threw off his

jacket and charged towards her.

He slashed with strong but precise movements. The sharp iron knives flashed

in front of her face in a flurry, which Rory was able to avoid until she lost her footing

and one of Creighton’s dirks dug deep into her cheek. It cut a jagged gash from her

upper lip to the bridge of her nose. Upon impact, he seemed alarmed and stepped back

covering his mouth.

The searing pain caused Rory to keel over and grunt.

“Oh fuck, I didn't mean to Rory, that was—”

“Shut up,” she said with a hand on her face, “keep going. It’s just a cut. Stop

being a baby.” Rory bent down, lifted the bottom of her skirt and pressed it to the

wound on her face. It wasn’t much help against the blood that poured from the wound

once she released the pressure. The front of her ash white uniform had turned a sickly

scarlet.

“I really think we should get you to the I—”

“We’re not done yet.” She yelled at him.

 Rory snapped her blade at Creighton, but he jumped back, parrying with his

own. The increased adrenaline made her reckless and angry, and she could see fear

wash over Creighton's face. It never occurred to her that maybe this was dangerous,

instead, it emboldened her; she wasn’t ready to concede, and fear meant she could

win.

“Stop. Moving. Urgh.” Rory groaned between breaths.

It was becoming blatantly obvious that she could control Creighton's

movements based on the angle of her attack. He was predictable, and never really

changed his pattern. Left, right, left, right, down, left. It was always the same, every

time. Using her newfound intel, she feigned to the right, and as he shifted to the left to

avoid the strike, she brought her pommel back and crashed it into his nose. He stepped

back holding his nose with knives in hand.

Rory still wasn’t satisfied yet, she needed to make him concede, that’s how this

worked.

While he was reeling, she knocked out his footing and sent him to the ground.

In the confusion, she tripped over his flailing limbs and tumbled over his body. As she

did, the edge of her shiny new iron sword crept across Creighton’s neck, carving a

large red trail in its wake.

™ Matt Rigg