houseofcards_rp | [ota] always tests

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[ota] always tests

Supposedly, it was just sparring. That's what the young Seven had said he was interested in, to learn. But Julien could see the gleam in the younger man's eye that suggested it was more than that. More about seeing if the Ace who was now proven to be fallible could fall even further.

At least, in sparring among Spades, it's not unheard-of to beat your opponent black and blue. Bruises to remember the lesson by. More unheard-of is Julien helping the young Seven back to his feet, apparently all courtesy. Though the hissed come back when you're worthy is rather less than courtesy, but for the boy's ears only.

Of course, it was only the first of many such tests and lessons Julien expected he'd be getting in the near future, looking for weakness. And in this particular case he was fairly certain the boy had been put up to it by a supposed friend to be the punching-dummy, as it were.

He shakes his head, flexes his hands, wipes the sweat from his face. Then he raises his eyebrows at the small audience that seems to have gathered in the practice room. "Anyone else? Because I'd really rather go have some tea."

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He'd seen Eileen watching, out the corner of his eye, but during the lesson, he had had to leave it behind. Something to consider when he wasn't focusing on making an example of the man in front of him without going so far as to bring down Royal attention yet again.

So it's only now that she speaks up that he turns to look at her fully, gives her a considering look. "I suppose I might have, Eileen. What did you have in mind?"

"Anything." Odds would throw them to knives, swords, his hand up to take hits from hers. Odds would throw to training rather than actual sparring. That wasn't the point. "While you're still--"

The clench of her jaw is brief. The word is murderous. The word is fired up. The word is actually capable of destruction. The word is genuine and raw and in pain of anger.

"--like this."

He looks at her again, more closely, interested in what wasn't said. And, since she came prepared, he just gestures out to the training mat, drops the towel he'd used a moment ago.

"Show me how you've been practicing, then."

It is entirely possible that he will expect more out of her now that she's older and in this moment when his mind is on how people will try to take advantage of any perceived weakness.

Eileen can't have that.

Her hair's getting far too long to be practical. It requires actually tugging down and then bringing up into a tight, proper bun while she follows him, detours briefly toward the rack on the wall.

He's taught her to carry a knife, true, but tanto isn't at all the sort of thing one casually brings along in one's back pocket.

"Kevin's been working me on disarming."

"Has he." Julien's tone is carefully neutral. "Then let's see what you have learned, hm?"

And when she approaches, he'll accept the blade. He's always been her teacher, it's true, but now she might begin to be something more than student. If she proves she's worth the time, if she can begin to keep up.

So when they begin to move, it will be almost entirely like he actually intends on slashing her open with the tanto if she doesn't move fast enough.

There are so many hands molding the way she holds herself in a fight. Lancelot's all over her defensive tendencies, Elisha's in the clarity of her motion, Kevin's in the stability on her feet.

But it's still Julien in her eyes. It will take the world to get him out, even if he never becomes Ace again.

Aikido is meant to help swallow a height disadvantage. She can't quite pull off any side-stepping. That means she's got to catch the slash--below the elbow, at the pinch nerve of the wrist--before tugging the motion around toward disarming. There's almost a misstep, but it's in her footwork rather than her hands, at least.

He'll let her disarm him. It is, after all, a good method.

But the faltered misstep makes her unstable enough that he'll also push her down to the floor.

"Again."

It's good, to be pushed down. It's good, to have someone who won't hesitate to bring a knife down on her or shove her to the ground.

It also hurts. Hurt is good, right?

Up she goes, tossing the tanto back to him to run through it again. Less hesitation this time. Firmer footfalls. A slightly higher grip on the wrist. Better?

If she asked Julien that, he would agree. Pain is a teacher too. Reminds you what was done wrong. Reminds you to do better.

And they'll keep running through it, until its perfect.

Which is when a rhythm has been established and he changes it, angling his attack differently. Seeing if it puts her off balance again and how she responds. It's really not fair to give her no warning like that.

But someone trying to kill her wouldn't give any warning either. Not if they were worth their salt, anyway.

That, at least, isn't a surprise. She's had good teachers--himself included.

Adjusting for the change isn't the most elegant thing in the world, although she's steady on her feet. The larger problem is likely the quick flash of fear that's visible through her eyes even as her body moves properly to keep her upright and him disarmed.

He'll halt as the blade drops, step back slightly and out of her grasp. "Why," his tone is almost conversational, "were you afraid."

Certain amounts of fear for oneself could be healthy. It was a reminder to take care, to be mindful.

Too much, though, unhandled, and you shut down.

It's instinct to move and pick up the blade, to start to hand it back before realizing he's moved away. Her exhale has only the slightest sort of shiver.

"...because I don't-- train with enough of a variety of individuals." Saying it helps get breathing back under control. "I don't... spend enough time having things changed to... provide an appropriate level of comfort with the... actual way in which people fight."

"So you were afraid you weren't going to be good enough."

That's what she's saying, isn't it.

She wants to deny it, feet settling back into proper ready position and body sinking just a hair into preparation. But she can't.

"That it would hurt."

Because she wasn't good enough and because the blade was sharper than the floor was hard.

He doesn't really have to crouch down anymore to be eye-level with her, but this is important, important enough not to tower over her to say it. And presumably, she'll follow him down too. So he settles into a crouch and looks at her steadily.

"What is there to fear in pain, Eileen?"

He holds out his hands so she can see all the thin lines crisscrossing them from various cuts. And then he tugs off his shirt so she can see the bullet wound on his left shoulder, the other scars and marks of his life. Though at least not the stripes on his back.

"It makes you stronger."

It's true. Of course it's true. She knows the scars on his hands. She knows the small nicks and scrapes that have turned into her own scattering of scars already.

It's the bullet wound that makes her since. Her stomach twists and her heart skips at the same time, shoulders turning slightly in on themselves before she can catch a deeper breath.

"...it's still-- unknown. Real... real physical pain, I mean."

He's not going to introduce her to it. Not necessarily. Not here for certain, where anyone can see. He can just imagine how that would get spun and he'd find himself suddenly outside of the Deck entirely.

So he puts his shirt back on instead and nods.

"I expect your body's pain can be no worse than the other sorts you've already experienced, Eileen." Think about it in that context. And he'll stand again. "Why don't we trade roles, mm?"

It's a good point. Something to focus on while he pulls himself together again.

What could hurt more than knowing she would probably never see Lancelot again? More than Edgar and Andrew's funerals?

"--trade?" It catches her slightly off-guard from her thoughts. "Why?"

So she has to attack someone.

So he can show her different methods of disarming.

"You cannot always be on the defensive, Eileen."

"...why not?"

She knows why not. She knows that sometimes, even if she challenges in poetry the rest of her life, even if she only lifts a knife in self-defense, she's going to need to know how to attack as much as she knows how to defend.

Her jaw was set this way, just the same, the first time she used human-shaped targets.

"I am not saying you have to actually make the first move, necessarily. But you cannot always let your opponent come to you or you will find yourself losing ground."

And getting backed into a corner.

"Sometimes it is better to end a fight swiftly."

Most times, really. And she couldn't always count on simply disarming.

"Attack, Eileen."

She hates that it's true. She hates that it's right. She hates knowing that there will come a day when she won't have to make a choice because it will have been made for her.

She's glad, in a tiny piece of herself, that she'll be prepared for it.

There's the faintest stutter of her hand as she moves to follow the directive. The motion is otherwise clean, the follow-through clean of hesitation.

He nods, briefly, as she moves but it doesn't stop him from disarming her and letting the tanto clatter to the floor.

"You've practiced against one of the dummies, have you not?"

Her movement to free her wrist again, grab the blade off the floor, is instant. She needs to reset or she'll start to fret again.

"They don't fight back. It isn't the same."

She's meant to come again, right?

As he's moving, now just avoiding her attacks, blocking as necessary, but not actually stopping the flow of their movements.

"They don't fight back," he agrees, "and that is why you must know how to deal with those who do."

[ota] always tests

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