Birdwatching
The story I'm going to tell you is true. I know because I witnessed it myself - I was hiding on a tree from a particularly unfriendly beast - and a big one, too - but let us not dwell on my misfortunes. What I was saying is that I could see everything perfectly well while staying unnoticed. So here we go.
The first person I see there is the girl. She looks very smart in her Academia dress - and her being around is in itself a good reason for me to stay up where I am and to sit quietly like a birdie in a cat's presence. These students never go anywhere without their shiny blades, and a simple peasant like myself is advised to stay out of their reach. They all like a bit of practice and, frankly, I'd rather be the audience than - but I'm talking and talking, and meanwhile - look! - the girl noticed something. What is it that makes her face alive with smugness, indignation and pride? I follow the daggers she glowers - what is it there?
Ah. Not what - who. A lad. No idea who he might be but he's not one of her pals, that's clear. And not from Academia. He looks mild and he's busy inspecting a flower or something and I can't see how anyone like that can affect a girl of this girl's kind like he does. I reckon it's nothing personal. Must be something they taught her in Academia.
Uh-oh. I should cut my tongue a little - it just has this extra lengh, doesn't it? The girl made her move while I was talking and I nearly forgot to tell you. She approaches this flowery lad - have I seen him somewhere before? - and this queenly air she has about her makes him look up at her - or maybe it's the sun glinting off her sword as she draws it. The lad watches her with curiousity as if she was a new kind of a butterfly. Can't he see that she didn't come to flutter around?!
He straightens - silly thing - and at the same second the girl lunges forward - but the lad just manages to get out of the blade's way in a soft, swift movement - as I see through my fingers. The girl swishes her weapon up for another blow - and this time I firmly press my hands to my face - I don't really fancy seeing a death of a butterfly - and I hear the girl's blade swishing down - but before I can curse myself for not covering my ears - and how would I do that, I ask you, with only two hands in my disposal - I hear not the scream I expect but an unexpected clash. And another one. And another.
I venture to peep through my fingers again.
Ah, the flowery butterfly has a sting! Good for him. He's defending himself with elegance - must be inborn elegance, I don't think one can train oneself this way - but then who am I to say so, I only trained a few horses - and each one of them was an ass at first - sorry, sorry! Am I wandering off again? I guess I am. All this fencing makes me dizzy. I hug the tree to stay on it - which thus leaves my eyes unshielded from the sight of the fighting.
Little as I know about fencing it's not hard to see that the lad is the one attacking now - a wise move if you ask me though I reckon you won't - and the girl, bewildered, has to defend herself.
Thought he was an easy prey, eh birdie?
But she must be well trained. She shakes off her bewilderment and with a lucky strike - if there's anything lucky about it - she disarms the fellow. His sword leaps from his hand and the long-legged bird kicks it even farther.
Her sword is pointed at the fellow. He's at her mercy; if she has any - which I personally doubt. He can't even kick her - she watches him and she's ready to check any attack.
And I'm sitting on such a useless tree. No pine-cones, acorns or fruits to throw at her. Pity. The lad is as good as dead. Poor thing. He was so fluffy.
The girl seems to agree with my thoughts - that is, about the fellow being as good as dead. That pleases her - I don't mean agreeing with me, she's not even aware of me, I should hope - and I can't read minds, mind you - but I've seen a thing or two in my life and if you're not appalled to hear a peasant's guess then I'd say she was very pleased with herself.
A cloud of smugness comes over her - the blade is ready for the final blow - and - and this lad, he must be bonkers! - he dashes forward and... He tickles her!
No, really!
Fortunatelly, his foe is not immune to tickling. She bends with laughter, forgetting all about her studies and exercises, and looks like a girl for once. She's much younger than she appears to be...
The hero softly deprives her of the sword; he simply takes it from her unresisting hand.
Her eyes, still wet with tears of the provoked laughter, widen when she sees her own blade in the enemy's hand. His gaze is stale. Uh-oh.
He's like a dandelion. Looks all fluffy - but have you seen the root? It's a hell of a root. Same here.
I want to look away but I can't. The scene is hypnotizing.
The birdie behaves and doesn't turn a hair - though grows considerably pale - when her own blade speeds onto her...
..and stops in a masterful hair's breadth from her throat. I say - this birdie must be really well trained. The slightest flinch from her, and she'd be dead. Chopped her own head off. But she's motionless.
Slowly, very slowly she realizes. I can tell it by the look on her face.
And so can this lad, I gather. He removes the sword and gallantly returns it to the astounded owner, handle first. She takes it mechanically, without looking; her eyes are staring, penetrating into his face, searching, questioning... Busy eyes, in a nutshell - and for a good reason.
He gives her a light smile, nods a polite bow, turns his back on her - and you can bet she's far from stabbing him in his back. He picks up his sword as he walks away, nonchalantly, almost absent-mindedly. The girl jerks forward, as if wanting to follow him, but checks herself and wanders, slowly, pensively, in another direction. There's a bright bird.
And then I get it. You know, I always believed that brightness is catching. Of course! That lad - I knew I knew him!
I was shown a picture of him but people do look different when you are hugging a tree for dear life. He's that young Master I was sent to have a look at to check whether the ugly rumours they spread in Academia about him are accurate.
“Rubbish!”, I hear the poor girl muttering to herself just under my tree. I couldn't agree with her more; but there are times when a man should keep his hearty consent and bother not the lady who struggles with deep issues under the tree on which he, for the time being, is hopelessly stuck.
Oh dear... This fight did exhaust me.
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