"Our school is going bankrupt and literally two pieces of paper from being repossessed by the government and you're a stick in the mud?!" A crisp French morning, the Alps were a spine of mountains in the country land to my back, bulbous blue rock conglomerates were balding with white scalps rested but mounted fortuitously. "That's it then? You would just let us sink and be demolished, what will we do? Fencing is our life here!" A gentle breeze came, calm, but enough to move the bearded bristles swayed. He was not ready.
A foil in many respects unsheathed, dew laden acres of plain stretched behind him and past myself encroached the mountains stopped short of the snow. Our castle behind the foil my symbol of achievement and his home. My foil was washed with rage took his stance letting me know he was ready. Poignant. Yes that's the word I would choose, to lose my achievement and my pupil in front of me is the term, still I was calm it was something age gave you; something you gain from watching the cycle of stigma in life and its symptoms. How could I explain what has no words? It can only be felt for oneself.
"Fight me!" your tongue isn't going to save you this time!" He was still attempting courtesy even in anger, juvenile but honorable; harsh life teaches you to cut cleanly, when you aim for the head, you cannot stop at neck's breadth. He came! I had forgotten how much faster he had gotten! Still my baselard diverted his strike, the knife sliding clean to the foil's hilt, i grabbed his wrist and threw him off kilter. Too much power, didn't I teach him that a strike no matter how powerful is useless if you can't maintain your stance?
After fumbling for balance bare teeth and windblown auburn glared back at me, but did not move. Unaffectedly i took the baselard and cut vertically into my fencing doublet just enough to leave my plaid shirt unscathed. "If I can right?!" he closed his distance this time leaving room for the next strike. My tired smirk was my answer he was right, my words were well worn and defeated, especially with him. "Your last mistake!" He lunged again! I deflected again, but he corrected his last mistake, good. I felt swelled with pride knowing I accomplished some small feat, he was still a gentle breeze in our cycle's stratum, compassionate but still not quite ready for the tempest!