Master of Brawling
Master of Brawling
Darkness eddied beneath his eyelids as consciousness drifted upward from its deep mooring—a slow ascent attended by a fleeting vertigo. Aslan opened his eye.
Muscles stiff from sitting too long unclenched by degrees, and beyond the receding dark he caught a vivid light—no, a blue-violet radiance, now that he looked properly.
Two points of blue-violet that seemed almost to glow. Even with only one eye the warmth in them registered clearly.
The owner of those blue-violet eyes smiled, small and feline.
"Aslan, morning. Good morning, isn't it?"
The question ended there, but her expression carried more weight than the words alone. Something closer to It's a good morning because you're looking at me, right? Aslan suspected the girl had meant exactly that, and he swept his bangs back as he answered.
"Morning, Fay. It's a good morning."
His voice came out husky, still thick with the dregs of meditation—four motionless hours would do that.
The elf girl crouched before him and let a satisfied little smile slip across her lips, as though the gravel in his voice pleased her.
"Were you waiting here just to say good morning?"
Fay cocked her head, chin propped on her hand, the smile turning enigmatic. Her scarlet hair tumbled across her cheek, and for one rare moment she looked almost grown.
"Mm, not really. Rumel and Eri asked me to let them know when you woke up. They gave me snacks for it."
The smile tightened at the corners—a knowing look that didn't quite suit a girl's face, until the familiar mischief crept back in and made it hers again.
"But they never said who should tell them, or that I had to come right away. So Fay decided to steal your first 'good morning' of the day."
That was more like her: an elf's impish grin. Aslan huffed a quiet laugh.
"Sly."
"But Fay's cute, so it's okay."
"Fair point."
She insisted, as she always did, that being cute excused most things. Then she fidgeted and pulled something out—a leather waterskin, its contents sloshing faintly against the thick hide.
"Your voice sounds really nice right now. You should wet your throat first."
"What's that supposed to mean? It's just a bit hoarse."
"Doesn't matter!"
She stamped her feet like a child winding up for a tantrum. Aslan snorted, took the waterskin, and drank.
Once his throat loosened and he felt a little more himself, he headed not for the trees but for the campfire, where Rumel was stirring a pot.
He walked over with Fay perched on his shoulder. Rumel looked up from the pot and her face opened into a bright, unreserved smile.
Aslan waved and stopped in front of the fire, and Rumel's lively voice struck his ears.
"Good morning, Sir Aslan."
"Good morning. Did you sleep well last night?"
He lowered Fay from his shoulder as he answered. The elf girl touched the ground with an expression of faint disappointment—the look of a puppy being set down from someone's arms.
She padded over to sit by the fire, and Rumel sent her an odd glance before picking up two bowls.
"Yes, thanks to you standing watch. But are you sure you shouldn't sleep more? You could only have gotten a few hours..."
She ladled the pot's contents into wooden bowls with the kind of care that suggested her concern was being poured into them along with the stew. She filled Aslan's bowl to the brim while she watched him.
Fay answered before he could.
"Aslan gets by on this much. Fay's seen it lots of times, so she knows. You don't need to worry."
Rumel looked to him for confirmation, and he smiled gently.
"Fay's right. This is just how I am. No need for concern."
"If you say so..."
She let the sentence trail off and held out the bowl. He took it and examined the contents: stew, more pale than red, with fish and an unfamiliar root vegetable.
Noticing his gaze linger, Rumel twisted a strand of her braid around her finger.
"I thought you'd be hungry when you woke, so I started a stew. This time I'm doing it my own way, so... I hope you'll enjoy it, Sir Aslan."
Her own way. Aslan managed a wry smile. He had no sense of taste; there was almost no way for him to appreciate the care she'd put in. But he could at least tell her it was good. He said something about looking forward to it and took a mouthful, registering only the warmth and the soft, flaky texture of the fish.
"Delicious again today. A warm stomach puts me in a good mood."
He did his best with the response. Rumel's expression flickered—she'd noticed the split-second delay before the compliment, and a trace of disappointment crossed her face. She didn't seem to realize the real reason, though.
He opened his mouth to correct himself, but she exhaled and spoke first, her expression hardening into resolve.
"I'll make it even better next time. So good Sir Aslan will want to eat it every day."
The implication was unmistakable. Aslan registered it and grimaced slightly, and Rumel—perhaps embarrassed by her own words—hid her nose behind her braid and laughed softly, sheepish.
Fay looked between the two of them and thrust her bowl at Rumel.
"Fay wants more. Less flirting, more stew."
"Flirting—that's not—"
"Hmm?"
"No, nothing. I'll get you more..."
While Rumel took the bowl in flustered embarrassment and Fay planted her hands on her hips in mock indignation, Aslan rose to his feet.
"Ah, Sir Aslan, if you don't mind... could you wake the others? If I leave it simmering too long, it'll burn..."
Rumel made the request as she ladled stew into Fay's bowl. He had no reason to refuse. He nodded and stepped away from the fire's lingering warmth, moving into the sparse stand of what looked like oak.
There he found Ereta.
She was asleep against a tree, a blanket draped around her like a cloak. Sunlight fell over her, but her eyes stayed peacefully shut, her breathing soft and even. Ereta was weak in the mornings. It put him vaguely in mind of Rowena. His mouth twitched at the thought, and Ereta's lips moved in a murmur. Her closed eyes opened.
"Aslan..."
The name came out thick with sleep. She wriggled her arms free of the blanket and reached for him, and he obliged, holding her while she fussed and pulled herself into his embrace. The moment she was in his arms she pressed her face against his chest and sniffed.
After a long moment of what seemed to be appreciative inhalation, she looked up at him, dazed, and whispered.
"Kiss, too..."
"Maybe not."
"Ah, so it's not a dream..."
As though that fully woke her, she made a small whimpering noise and rubbed her face against his chest. She reminded him of a friendly animal just roused from sleep. He smiled at the sight, charmed, then shook her gently.
"Mm..."
"Time to get up. Rumel made stew. She said it'll burn, so we should come eat."
"No... don't wanna... I don't eat breakfast anyway... even though I want to eat Aslan..."
The logic was incomprehensible. He let out another quiet laugh, and she squirmed deeper into his arms as if trying to burrow inside him. He was grateful for the blanket muffling the sensation.
"Do you know where Angie is?"
Better to let the morning-weak sleep a little longer than to force her up for a meal she didn't want. Ereta answered in a voice still dripping with drowsiness.
"Probably... with the Master of Combat, I think..."
She murmured something that sounded like good as she slid back toward sleep. Aslan sighed faintly, waited until her breathing steadied, then leaned her against the tree and draped the Wings of Stymphalos over her.
"Sleep well."
Ereta breathed on without answering. He walked a short distance and found Angie exactly where Ereta had predicted: with the Master of Combat.
"That's right, your arm like this. Imagine the power rising from your toes, flowing through your body, erupting from your fist."
"Like this...?"
"Hm, no. Your ankle should be a bit more..."
She was learning from him, to be precise. Aslan watched Angie throw a punch under Itar's guidance, set her footing, step back, swing her leg—and he smiled, satisfied. The learning didn't look easy, but the fundamentals were seeping into her movements little by little. Bad habits, unbalanced force, wasted strength—all being corrected. He leaned against a tree and recalled what Itar had asked him earlier.
'That girl—would you mind if I taught her?'
Aslan had said Angie would have to answer that herself, and Itar had gone to her and made the request with courtesy. Angie had made her own decision and accepted, and for the two days they'd stayed here she'd been learning unarmed combat from him. Whether because she had a soft spot for someone who treated her kindly, or because she wanted to be useful to Aslan, or because she understood it would help in saving the world—he couldn't say. What mattered was that she had chosen the instruction.
Seeing the results beginning to show, Aslan couldn't help but be satisfied. Angie threw a clean punch that sent the dry leaves blanketing the ground scattering in every direction. He watched for a while longer, then approached.
Itar noticed him first and withdrew his hand from adjusting Angie's stance, and Angie caught on a beat later. Her sweat-drenched face split into a grin.
"Aslan!"
She came running, and the ground didn't crater under her feet, nor did the leaves fly—she was learning control.
"Sleep well?"
"Yeah. Did you sleep well? Learning a lot?"
"Ah... I slept fine, but I'm not sure if I'm learning much."
She laughed and scratched the back of her head in embarrassment. Itar answered for her.
"Lady Angie is learning well. You needn't worry."
The old man approached with a kindly smile. Aslan returned it.
"I wasn't worried. But if she's doing well, I'm curious. How is she?"
Itar blinked at the sudden question, then laughed.
"Her natural talent is definitely lacking."
"Huh?"
Angie made a flustered noise—she'd clearly expected a compliment. Itar glanced at her and added,
"Her understanding of combat itself is good. How to strike, how to respond, the eye to read a situation—all promising. But her grasp and use of her own body are less than outstanding."
Angie visibly deflated. Itar laid a hand on her shoulder.
"Which means even a little training will improve her skill quickly."
That got her smiling again.
"He's right, I learned a ton already! There's this thing—when you turn your foot and twist your hip, the punch gets way harder. Did you know that?"
"Really? I didn't."
"Oh, and I also learned this—!"
The girl chattered away, excited, and Aslan listened. Itar watched the two of them with a fond expression for a while, then patted the girl's back.
"Lady Angie, I believe breakfast is ready. Go wash up at the stream."
"Ah—yes!"
Angie sprinted toward the stream. Itar gazed after her for a long moment.