"Back straight, chin up. Again" The man said to the boy.

The boy, scraggly and exhausted, straitened his back; hefted his shield, and raised his blade. Face pouring sweat, grime, and sheer force of will.

The man lunged forward. Coming towards the boy in a way the lad thought impossible. Blade used as an extension of the man not as the tool it was. Every strike punctuated by the shield's blunt force. Each slash preventing the boy's feeble attempts at countering. This was a man who lived by the sword, and was unwilling to let the boy do anything less.

Upon advance the boy locked into his stance. Beaten down to a pulp but not defeated, finding strength where he thought he had none. He raised his shield to deflect the man's strikes. Each connecting hit pushing the boy back, inch by inch. Desperately the boy attempts to raise his own blade to strike the man's own shield, the feeble effort blocked easily, leaves to the wind. The man brought closer to another victory over the boy. Another night, the boy thought, another night pronounced by the man's relentless critiques. He would not allow it.

Observed by outsiders this training appears less as fighting than it does an intricate dance, fueled by a rhythm of two hearts beating seamlessly in time. The man knew this concerto as well as any composer. The boy was learning still, beginning to grasp the intricacies of this tango. It is here the adage holds. Master should not fear the second-best: for the second-best knows the rules. It is the pitch-deaf novice which should be dreaded.

The boy dropped his shield on the man's next strike. The man halted his assault for a moment, less than a breath, it was enough. The boy pushed his advantage with his blade, bringing it to the wrist of his maestro. Oak struck flesh, and the man's own blade fell from his hand. The boy continued with his motions, striking where the boy thought the man would be incapable of blocking, seemingly forcing the man back. Blade meeting shield at every opportunity, wood beating against wood. While his own muscles roared at him in fatigue he would not halt his onslaught. His fate would be sealed, anger pushing him where he once would never go.

Left with only a board, the man did his best to keep his wits, he was not young. Years of combat had given him knowledge to recognize the body's response to various injury. Right now, he thought, his wrist was probably broken. The boy did not stop. Blade continuing to pummel against the man's board.

Practice field once seemed closer to a studio than a lord's courtyard. That was when the man and the boy fought with elegance. The boy however succumbed to a corrupting anger. His stance not that of an educated heir, but of the wild ruffian driven by blood-lust. Where the man once attacked the boy with grace, the boy struck back with fury.

Splinters began to fly off the man's board, unable to withstand such relentless strikes. The man attempted to protest, to allow the boy reprieve of his lesson for the day. The boy continued, being unable or perhaps, unwilling to halt his anger. Lacquered oak defined the boy's blade, the man's board was a mere piece of bark ripped from a tree near the estate. Craftsmanship would give the blade an edge in its use. The man fell on his backside, holding up his board in exhaustion above him in a final armor against the boy's blows.

Thunder could not be louder to the man than that noise of the board shattering. The boy continued. Screams of the man drowned by the boy's cry of battle.

The boy, scraggly and exhausted, straightened his back; dropped his sword, and walked away. Face covered in blood, sweat, and tears. None his.

He walked to the armament rack, grabbing a simple blade and sheath, and began to walk away from the estate. The boy who entered training that day did not survive his own bloodied corruption of a simpler elegance.

"Again" he croaked.