Snow Child [2/5]
anonymous
February 11 2010, 01:06:15 UTC
He had seen men seize power and rule over the centuries. Might did not assure a throne though it could etch out little dominions and petty realms, fleeting and frail. Something else was needed, something beyond brute strength and reckless courage. Other countries had talked of divine right. He merely thought of it as kingship, something intangible and impossible to describe.
And he could see it within her frank, grave gaze.
What else could he do but kneel before her? So he did.
“m’pologies,” he said. “Prince.”
…
Sweden could use the sword as well as any man (perhaps better than many, he would state without feigned modesty or grandiose pride, but simple succinctness) but he never felt fully comfortable with it. His first weapon had been a long hafted warhammer, but that was growing to be a relic of an ever distant time. Even the sword was becoming an artifact, with the production of guns and cannons, and he wondered if he would ever grow accustomed to the impersonal, monstrous strength of gunpowder and bullets.
Sweden prayed that he wouldn’t.
His King (he had taken to calling her that already, though she would not ascend the throne until her eighteenth year; she had insisted upon it) had the finest of Italian fencing masters. But she had come to him and had asked him (no, she did not ask, like her father. She commanded him) to teach her true fighting.
He had already taught her how to ride, though he had never taught a woman in skirts before (he had taught women before, but they had not bothered with encumbering garments); teaching her to fight-not fence-was something that made him hesitate more.
“’s painful,” he warned her.
She did not toss her head impatiently but met his gaze levelly. “Signor Giotto does not pull his blows with me,” she replied. She did not bother adding the useless question of “Do you think I’m that frail?”
Sweden did not inform her that the Italian was informed quite strictly to restrain himself. He did not sigh but he merely said, “T’morrow, after prayers.”
Christina would never be able to bear his longsword but it was clear that elegant rapiers brought from France and Italy would not suffice. He found one of the lighter blades given to boys younger than she, though it was a weapon that would not suit a princess.
But it would suit a prince under his instruction.
Sweden found it frighteningly easy to not hold back with her. The ghost of her father whispered to him, warning him that kindness was cruelty in this hard world. It was to insult his monarch to hold all his strength back, perhaps even treason. So he never treated her as any less than a boy entrusted to him, unafraid to send her flying. Bruises blossomed upon her arms and her legs; she seemed to walk with a limp or suffered from mild tremors on her hands every day. But she never called for surcease and when a blow knocked her down, she always got back up again, even if it was only to a sitting position. Sometimes, he had to call for a halt to their battles, stopping her before she hurt herself.
Even as he fought with her, as he mercilessly struck through all the most elaborate, flamboyant defenses that people in warmer lands could create, he found himself desperately wishing that she would never have to use what he taught her.
And he could see it within her frank, grave gaze.
What else could he do but kneel before her? So he did.
“m’pologies,” he said. “Prince.”
…
Sweden could use the sword as well as any man (perhaps better than many, he would state without feigned modesty or grandiose pride, but simple succinctness) but he never felt fully comfortable with it. His first weapon had been a long hafted warhammer, but that was growing to be a relic of an ever distant time. Even the sword was becoming an artifact, with the production of guns and cannons, and he wondered if he would ever grow accustomed to the impersonal, monstrous strength of gunpowder and bullets.
Sweden prayed that he wouldn’t.
His King (he had taken to calling her that already, though she would not ascend the throne until her eighteenth year; she had insisted upon it) had the finest of Italian fencing masters. But she had come to him and had asked him (no, she did not ask, like her father. She commanded him) to teach her true fighting.
He had already taught her how to ride, though he had never taught a woman in skirts before (he had taught women before, but they had not bothered with encumbering garments); teaching her to fight-not fence-was something that made him hesitate more.
“’s painful,” he warned her.
She did not toss her head impatiently but met his gaze levelly. “Signor Giotto does not pull his blows with me,” she replied. She did not bother adding the useless question of “Do you think I’m that frail?”
Sweden did not inform her that the Italian was informed quite strictly to restrain himself. He did not sigh but he merely said, “T’morrow, after prayers.”
Christina would never be able to bear his longsword but it was clear that elegant rapiers brought from France and Italy would not suffice. He found one of the lighter blades given to boys younger than she, though it was a weapon that would not suit a princess.
But it would suit a prince under his instruction.
Sweden found it frighteningly easy to not hold back with her. The ghost of her father whispered to him, warning him that kindness was cruelty in this hard world. It was to insult his monarch to hold all his strength back, perhaps even treason. So he never treated her as any less than a boy entrusted to him, unafraid to send her flying. Bruises blossomed upon her arms and her legs; she seemed to walk with a limp or suffered from mild tremors on her hands every day. But she never called for surcease and when a blow knocked her down, she always got back up again, even if it was only to a sitting position. Sometimes, he had to call for a halt to their battles, stopping her before she hurt herself.
Even as he fought with her, as he mercilessly struck through all the most elaborate, flamboyant defenses that people in warmer lands could create, he found himself desperately wishing that she would never have to use what he taught her.
But perhaps he did not have to worry about that.
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