Anchoro

The First Lesson

We set about clearing the dining room.

Or rather, Fabiola did, carting away chairs three at a time while I awkwardly dragged one towards a corner. She whisked the centerpiece decorations into the china cabinet with fussy care – then planted both hands on the long table and grunted slightly, shoving it clear across the polished wooden floor with sheer brawn. Then she walked around opening drapes as I labored with my single, stupidly-heavy high-backed chair, but the sullen gray light seeping through the overcast was hardly worth the effort.

With the damn thing finally stowed, I picked up the battered black case I'd brought down from the attic and dropped it on the table, now pushed up against the wall. I popped the latches, slipped my fingers under the edge of the lid – and paused.

It was my first time opening it myself. Father had always done that – part of our weekly ritual. I rubbed my thumbs over the battered, dusty plastic for a few seconds, thoughtful.

Then I flung open the lid. Within lay the old practice swords – almost as long and heavy as the actual weapon resting over the mantle the next room over. With the dull, dented metal in sight, the rest flowed with force of habit. I shucked my jacket and began unbuttoning my shirt.

“... Master?”

“Mm?” I queried, already wiggling one arm out of the sleeve.

“Why are you undressing?”

I froze halfway through shucking my shirt. “... well, we're going to spar, right? You need freedom of movement...”

“I understand the jacket,” she said, “but the shirt?”

“T-thats how I always did it with dad!” I objected. “I mean, do you really wanna fence in a dress!?”

Fabiola looked down at the hem of her maid outfit, then turned those piercing emerald orbs back on me. “Does the young Master wish me to undress?”

I sputtered and retreated a step. “N-no! No, no, nonono just I mean you want to mo- I mean you should – anybody should – freedom of movement is essential because you've got to move fast and tripping bad!”

Fabiola pursed her lips thoughtfully and tugged a pleat of her dress out as she studied it. “Mmm. So I should put on something more comfortable?”

“Wwwwha-”

“Or just less restricting fabric-”

“HERE,” I declared, snatching up a practice sword and shoving it sidelong at her as I stared down, face burning. She plucked it from my grasp gently, and I took my own, sidling to the middle of the floor so I didn't have to look at her as my cheeks cooled.

“I've never fenced before,” Fabiola says politely, “so I'm afraid you'll have to explain the rules to me.”

“Uh,” I said, testing my voice before trusting it. “Just don't poke my eyes out, please. That's it. Dad never liked fencing, even classical style. This is just... sword-sparring, I guess.”

“Very well,” Fabiola replied. “I know enough of that.” She slid one foot towards me and rested the tip of her weapon on the floor; poised and waiting.

I tried to swallow, but found I didn't have any spit left to do it. At least my blade didn't waver as I adopted a conventional middle guard; hilt at my waist, point aimed at Fabiola's shoulder. “Okay,” I said unsteadily. “... go?”

She *moved,* her body snapping forward into a full-tilt charge so fast I scarcely followed it, her sword clenched level by her side like a spear. There was no stance to analyze, no distance to measure – no way to anticipate how or where her attack would come -

- so I lunged, driving straight at her breast with a desperate strength, muscle-memory serving me well as I tried to ward off the beast -

- she swept her blade up and across her body, swatting my attack aside with ease before rolling the motion into a shoulder-check that sent me reeling. Before I could recover, her hand came back across and slammed her hilt into my jaw, sending me spinning to the floor. The room spun for a moment and stabilized with her sword-tip resting against my neck.

“Whhrglf,” I whimpered quietly. Fabiola stepped back, giving me room to rise on my own. She didn't apologize for her forceful blow, and I didn't expect her too – right now, *she* was the Master, and we both knew it. I staggered upright and settled into stance again, this time opting for a higher guard – she was too close to charge this time, and two heads taller than me to boot.

Fabiola danced closer, her dress swirling as her blade came whistling down at me. I caught it on my ricasso just in time, the sheer force of her blow almost making me buckle. I pressed forward to maintain opposition, hoping to control her steel, but she simply pressed forward, her greater strength making my shoes squeak on the hardwood as I slid back as the table had. I tried to twist, to move, to deflect, but to no avail – my back slammed into the wall with painful force, my blade pressed flat across my chest. She simply slid her own upwards till it pressed against my throat, held it there long enough to illustrate the point, and withdrew.

I peeled myself off the wall, my entire body shivering with adrenal hysteria. She'd agreed to teach me, she was teaching me, [spoiler]to fight?[/spoiler]

I had to trust her, this was Fabiola, *Fabiola* for chrissakes -

[spoiler]did she actually say 'to fight'[/spoiler]

Even if she was gazing at me like an ant begging for a squashing, letting that sword dangle with casual disdain, this was still my maid, my friend, - [spoiler]oh she's teaching you all right, she's taking you to school[/spoiler]

It was all over my face no matter how much I wished otherwise, and Fabiola didn't feign ignorance of it; tightening up her stance into something a little more serious. “Better?”

I glared at her, but held my tongue as I returned to my guard. This was just a test, I reasoned. Just a test.

She simply stepped into range this time and began attacking more conventionally; thrusts, cuts, feints and jabs. Properly rattled by now, I stayed on the back foot, deflecting her attacks with frantic energy, finally remembering to circle lest she drive me into a corner again. I kept waiting for the real attack to develop, the crazy, crushing charge, but it never came. My breathing grew ragged as she continued to harry me around the room, and with a start I realized she'd never been in danger – she had a longer reach, and she'd never came within mine, not once, during this latest bout.

I lunged immediately, all my training, technique and practice balanced behind the thrust. The most remarkable attack in Western martial arts, Father had said; able to reach out with blinding speed and touch those that thought themselves safe. And yet Fabiola intercepted, her white glove flashing as she parried with a mere wrist-flick and a half side-step, almost to fast to follow. Her blade came sliding up mine a heartbeat later, forcing me to twist my arm around, raising hilt and dropping point to halt her steel – leaving my left side completely open. I stepped in, trying to twist my stance into a hanging guard – too slow.

The palm-strike slammed into my chest so hard I heard my sternum creak as I was flung back, barely keeping my feet. Fabiola didn't bother to press her advantage as I gasped for breath against aching ribs. She simply loomed over me, just out of reach, expression blank and eyes cold.

“We can stop, if you want,” she said – a little too stiffly, trying to keep the pity out of her voice.

It *was* Fabiola, after all – and she was doing as the Head Maid had done before, before Roanapur, when she'd “arm-wrestle” me in the garden, and I'd “win.” As Caxton had done, handing me his gun - and Chiaki, with hers.

Humoring the child.

Even with the training, and the technique, and the practice – I was just too damned weak. If Fabiola could simply overpower me, what the hell would I do against mercenaries? Or Magical Girls? Or *anything?* But Fabiola, ever elegant, would never say such out loud. She'd just let me reach the inevitable conclusion myself, and in the meantime – she'd humor me.

I'd know the world belonged to the strong since forever – anyone born rich in South America learns that quick – but when the boot finally fell, I was too busy surviving to get angry about it. I wish I could say it caught up with me then; a wrath righteous and pure – but instead of injustice, it was her pity that drew blood; protecting my illusion of dignity by playing along.

God forgive me, for in that moment I truly hated her.

I locked stares with her cold emerald eyes as I felt out the edges of my emergency remote in my pocket, the raised rubber buttons easily distinguished through the thin fabric of my slacks. “Fabiola,” I breathed roughly, “you're great, but you don't know anything about what I want.”

I jabbed my panic button.

Heavy steel shutters slammed down over the windows, plunging the room into instant darkness. The metallic cacophony crashed and echoed around the high-ceilinged room for long moments, covering my quick position change. Within two seconds we were alone in a silent darkness.

“.... my, my,” Fabiola said softly, and took an experimental step. I sidled sideways; my shoes were soft-soled, and in just a t-shirt and lightweight slacks, I could move nigh silently. Fabiola's hard-heeled Mary Janes and long, flowing maid attire made her motion unmistakably audible.

“... not bad, young Master,” she said with a note of approval. She couldn't conceal her position and didn't care to, anyway – she couldn't *smell* attackers, like my Head Maid seemed to do, but any fast charge would make noise enough, and her reflexes were insane.

“Not bad at all,” she continued, the polished floorboards creaking slightly under her weight. I stalked through the darkness silently, the careful, precise footwork Father had taught me serving well. My heart thundered with heat, pumping slick wet hate through my body; lubricating my slow, oiled advance and pressurizing my skull to bursting with plots. My mind spun through every angle; everything I knew of Fabiola, any way to stack the deck further even as I flowed across the floor like gasoline. I felt like a submarine stalking a destroyer; outgunned and outclassed, my only chance lie in ambush.

Somewhere in the darkness, I'd forgotten about learning how to fight.

Now, with every fiber of my being, I wanted to *win.*

Twelve crisp, cautious strides in the darkness, I counted – and then I struck. Fabiola's childhood of capoeira combat had gifted her grace and a nigh-supernatural kinesthetic sense; I counted on it as I brought down my blade with all my might.

The tip of her sword connected with the lightswitch a heartbeat before mine met her wrist. The jolt raced up her arm and flared in her eyes as her sword tumbled from numb fingers. I was already following through, twisting my hips into a mighty blow, swinging diagonal from the floor to cover as much space as I could, a kind of mad, flaming panic screaming through my mind – I'd shot my wad and I had to make it count, no retries, no second chances -

- and then everything lit up in bright white stars, the room spun very, very fast, and then stopped very, very suddenly. The afterimages of Fabiola's heel coming in at me floated through my mind, and I marveled anew at her perfection – even when flipping back into a spinning-kick, you still couldn't glimpse her panties.

Not that I wanted to, of course – I'd just been kicked in the head, is all.

Fabiola's Mary Janes trod into view a few moments later. “Young Master!?” She plucked me off the floor and cradled me in her arms, tilting my face up to look at her. “I'm so sorry, Garcia, it was reflex – are you okay?”

“Dhid ah-oooh,” I groaned as the ache in my jaw asserted itself. I ground my teeth together for a moment and tried again. “Did I hit.”

“What?”

“Hit you. Last swing.”

The concern faded from Fabiola's face, her pretty green eyes studying me thoughtfully. She pushed me away, gripping my shoulders till I steadied on my feet – and kept on gripping as she locked gazes with me.

“Garcia,” she said softly. “Are you sure you want this?”

“Want?” I repeated, the word tumbling from my lips like a spent cigarette. I wanted a lot of things. I wanted my old home back. My old life back. I wanted Roberta back, before the Incident. I wanted Father back. His smell, his touch, his sound. I wanted lots of things.

What I wanted didn't count for jack shit.

I twisted away from Fabiola as my vision blurred, but she just gripped harder and pulled me close, staunching my tears against her apron. I felt the encircling arms of the woman I'd just hated so passionately – the woman who'd protected my very life for years – and the guilt crushed the last of my resistance.

You're supposed to feel better, after you cry – purged of all the wickedness. But when Fabiola asked me again, much later, I found it was still there, simmering within me.

I wanted to win.