Young Writers Society

two. swords and sunrises.

The sun is not yet a thought — for now, the world is still and sleepy. Humidity plagues the night and whispers through window ways, prickling skin. Heat is like a blanket pressed hard against sleeping faces.

Though the world is motionless and, most likely, the guards on duty are sleeping in their helmets, there is one completely awake soul. She lays under blankets the fabric of which she’d previously never even had the privilege of touching upon mattresses softer than freshly dewed grass. She is smiling. Of course she is — she’s about to start a new chapter of her life.

That is how Azalee of Dune is choosing to see this. A new chapter. She repeats those words to herself, in her head, over and over. This isn’t sad. This isn’t desolate. This is exciting. The turning over of a new leaf. The beginning of a new existence.

Just a day earlier, Azalee had been cleared by The Association. She and Matka had been packed into a small, wooden room full of tables and ancient scrolls that felt damp and crowded, even with only four people. It had been strange to see magic that she was expected to accept, and not fight against, but, in true Azalee fashion, she had only smiled and treated them with the highest politeness and care. There had been muttered incantations — hours of questioning which Azalee complied with with her largest grin. Azalee hadn’t been told the outcome immediately, but by the scowl on Matka’s face, she had assumed she had passed.

They had returned to the castle at dinnertime, and thus, decided to speak to the Queen’s Maidens then. The room was as gray and dark as the rest of the castle, and Azalee and Matka had stood on one of the wooden tables stretched along the floor that hadn’t been occupied with cloths full of food to announce Azalee’s candidacy. They had been met with only scowls, but no one wished for the job more. Azalee was then shown the locations of the wells, and led to her own quarters and given her instructions for the morning.

Though the interim queen’s handmaiden is not due to show Azalee how the job works until the sun rises, Azalee feels more awake than she has in years. She lays in anticipation of the morning, heart hammering, speeding, crawling into her throat. She feels as if she cannot properly breathe.

It is nerves, she convinces herself, pressing her quivering hands against her gasping chest. I am just nervous.

Of course, Azalee has never done anything like this in her life. She can smile and stand tall all she wants, but in her heart lives doubt, just as any living creature.

Only one thing has ever been able to satiate her fear and uneasiness. Only one thing has ever brought comfort to shaking skin. Azalee hardly recognizes what she’s doing as she stands and changes — into long leather pants, a puffed white shirt with ties crossing over the front, and dark brown boots that finish lacing over her shin. Two knives are stowed in her boots, her twin swords again in her sheath, and before she knows it, she’s already stepping out of her assigned room and bathing in moonlight. The courtyard has to be somewhere nearby, correct? Soldiers must be able to train within castle walls…

In fact, the courtyard appears to be the center of the entire castle — a large, empty grassy plain full of dummies made of flour and rice bags. Azalee is about to pull her swords from their sheaths when she spies wooden swords resting on display a few feet away. She notices that the damage done to the dummies appears to be caused by a very blunt weapon, and thus, quickly levies two of the pieces of wood towards her target. She can tell they are well-worn and, thus, weaker for it — there are notches and fractures splayed across the boards. Against a sword of metal, perhaps they would not survive — but for sacks of rice, they should fare well enough.

The left weapon rests horizontally, while the right is raised higher, vertically. Azalee strikes first from the bottom, then slashes from the top, before switching positions with her hands. Bottom, top, bottom, top. Deflect the beginning blow, look for an opening. Wrists bend as wood thumps rhythmically. If she follows the momentum of her body, she can spin and levy a blow with considerable power — but it leaves her back open for a moment. No matter; if her blades had been made of metal and not timber, she would have taken the head off of her sack opponent.

She repeats the moves — down, up, up, down, down, up, up, down. Azalee's curls dance and bob through the air, the section obscuring her vision in no way obscuring her accuracy. She feels herself begin to perspire in the muggy night. As she spins for the third or fourth time, imagining separating the rice’s head from its body, she hears a voice.

“Not bad. But how would you do against a living one?”

The words startle her slightly — in the damp darkness comes a deep voice. A figure approaches her in the night — a tall, well-built male. As he steps nearer, holding a sword of steel on his shoulder and a shield in front of him, she can just make out the outline of his armor.

“Oh — I am not an enemy.” She flashes her palms at him, but does not release the wooden handles. “I am Our Majesty’s new handmaiden.”

“If you were an enemy, I would not give you a choice.” A slight pause as he considers something — his guard never once relaxes. “Handmaiden? Does that mean you do not fight?”

Azalee has never backed down from a challenge — even a subtle, veiled one. Her smile shines even in complete darkness. “Why do you not come and find out, soldier?”

She cannot see his face beneath his helmet, but can almost hear the slight, sarcastic simper that’s surely creasing the corners of his visage. He raises a sword and a large, rectangular shaped shield towards her as she returns to her original fighting stance. Legs shoulder-width apart. Knees bent as she bounces, slightly, in anticipation. His is somewhat similar, but even with his shield, Azalee can already see openings.

Azalee is used to fighting at night, but never against a knight. His opening stance, like a first impression may set a tone for a friendship, seems to automatically spell the outcome of this fight to her — and her cheeks dimple.

Her right hand strikes high, and his shield chases it — with her left she swings downward, expecting to catch his midsection. When she’s greeted by his sword, she’s pleasantly surprised, even as he cuts her wooden sword into a dagger. It doesn’t matter — as he’s working on besting her there, she spins around his backside, laying her back near his, swinging her right arm with power as she tingsthe back of his armor. “Slash!” she calls, at the stab. In an immediate reaction, his back comes colliding with hers, lifting her off of her feet with his brute force and sending her to the ground. Azalee tucks her head and lands on her back with a soft oof, rolling onto her feet in a crouched position. She anticipates and sees his next move, because as she turns to face him, she throws her right sword around the left side of her body, catching his sword. With another soft chipat their meeting, she loses her second sword — now two wooden daggers is all she has left. Thankfully, the force of his swing has given his heavier sword momentum — it begins to slide down for a moment. Azalee sends her left dagger to his sword, pushing it further downwards to pull him, and stabs upwards with her right dagger. He, apparently, had forgotten that she was still beneath him — while his shield would have protected him if she had been standing strong once again, it only hit her arm belatedly as the tip of her broken sword collided with the front of his armor again. “Stab!” she calls, tapping it once, and then drags it lightly along the breastplate. “Slaaaaash. And you are dead! One, time to run, two and you’re through.”

With this, the man above her relaxes — with a sching, he returns his sword to its sheath and reaches out a hand to Azalee. “Well met.”

As he pulls her to her feet, he removes his helmet — long, dark, straight hair falls over his shoulders. Even in the darkness, Azalee can see the glittering black of his eyes. His skin is more red than hers, yet still dark, as is all those she has encountered thus far.

Azalee grins her customary smile as she passes her wooden daggers to her left hand and wipes dirt off of her pants — she stares up at the huge figure above her. He seems to tower downwards, and age is mentioned by the stubble on his chin. “Well met,” she replies, cheerful. “I am Azalee, of Dune.” And with that, her body bows over.

“Dune? You’re a Pruding person.”

“Indeed!” She straightens up in excitement, beaming. “Have you had much experience with Pruding?”

“Experience?” His thin lips press into a smile that seems to always appear sardonic — his lips are long and straight and only crease upwards at the end. “I’m from Stribling.”

“You are kidding!” Her right hand closes over the fisted one, still holding the daggers — she leans forward with eyes sparkling and bright. “What are you doing all the way out here?”

“I could ask of you the same.” He hesitates as if considering, tilting his head slightly, then releases, “I came to join the guard when I was younger. Did I mishear you earlier? You’ve just bested me, and yet you’re here to be a handmaiden?”

Azalee almost feels like telling him that it was easy, with all of his openings, but she decides to focus on the positives of his fighting. “I served as head guard in Dune. Still, you surprised me. You looked like you would go down easier than you did.”

“I never go down without a fight, Miss Azalee.” He holds out the hand with which he fought, and Azalee clasps it as he says, “Mirtus.”

It’s a strong name, Azalee thinks — and with the grip on forearm now, she can feel the strength within it and within him. His personality and care is warm, but still somewhat reserved and dignified. Instantly, she’s reminded of an ancient forest, lost and mysterious, but bathing in early morning glow. Azalee cannot help but smile.

“I believe I am owed an answer. You’re here to be a handmaiden?”

“Well, yes, I…” Azalee releases his arm, smiles a bit embarrassedly. She can feel the heat of the night so much stronger now, after the exertion, after the fight. Fingers play with splinters on the edge of her wooden daggers. The water lingering in the air seems to close a dark hole around her, threatening to swallow her. Her fingers itch at the curls on her neck. “I… well…”

She cuts off, for there’s a sound that calls both of their attention — something dragging on the ground. As trained fighters, even the quietest unplanned noise is cause enough for pause — both of them face the movement in the dark. Anxiety falls away and is replaced by focus. Anything can be sinister in night when not lit with torches, and so Azalee’s grip tightens on the wooden daggers. She’s considering how best to draw her weapons without frightening Mirtus when she hears him sigh in relief — apparently already discovering what it is making the noise. Her guard does not fall as he leaves her side and moves towards the noise.

“For Samaqus’ sake,” she hears him say, and then hears metal clinking on metal — Mirtus has slung his arm over the moving figure and pulled him closer. “You’ve nearly ended my life in panic.”

Out from the dark comes a soft grumble that turns into a yawn. At the sound, Azalee immediately smiles, sees the figure that is drawing closer is dressed as a guard.

The new person’s voice is soft, but strangely jumbled, almost muffled in exhaustion. “Right, right, because it’s such a secret that I’m out here sleeping, eh?”

The shape of the armor dictates he’s shorter and less muscular than Mirtus, and his helmet is already removed — he has short, bushy curls that seem to obscure most of his round and soft face. His eyes appear lighter and bigger than Mirtus’.

“Speakin’ of it,” continues his voice, softly, “dawn's on her way. Where’ya gone? You were supposed to take my —”

Azalee is still taking him in, listening to his words, when her eyes slip down to his shoulders and she interrupts him in a cry of, “That’s mine!”

The person Azalee does not yet know jumps — as if just realizing he is in the presence of someone else. There’s a pause where the shorter one stares at her, mouth slightly agape in surprise, while Mirtus tilts his head, his eyes attempting to analyze her as if her face will give more meaning to her words. “I believe you are mistaken, Azalee,” Mirtus speaks. “Selam is mine.”

“No, I — ” Azalee dissolves into momentarily laughter, free hand grasping her lips as she giggles almost uncontrollably. “Not the man, the coat!”

For on this Selam’s back is, tied carefully, a soft gray cape with a hood.

“Oh.” Languidly, Selam pulls at the cape — his hands are giant and lack any fine motor, as if sleepy and confused. “Is it, now? I found it on me a few mornings ago… thought an angel must have left it.”

“Not quite.” Azalee beams, as per usual, hands twisting behind her back as she smiles. “You were so peacefully asleep when I saw you on the guard, I thought I could lend you my coat to keep you warm.”

Something changes after these words that Azalee had not anticipated. Almost automatically, Mirtus bristles — it seems almost uncharacteristic as his dark eyes narrow further and he releases Selam’s arm, stepping in front of him. “Mirtus…” Selam mumbles, voice both exasperated and tired, apparently understanding that which Azalee does not yet, as Mirtus places his figure in front of Selam and faces her.

“Are you meaning to accuse my partner of sleeping on the job? You must know what a dire offense such is. I will fight for his honor!”

Azalee pauses, momentarily, mouth slightly agape. Fear and embarrassment fight for a title roll in her mind. She considers, briefly, reminding him that she had just bested him — instead, she offers a helpless, embarrassed smile that almost appears as a grimace. “Ah… I — did not mean to — I… merely…”

“Ah, give it a rest,” Selam interjects, tapping the other on his shoulder. “It’s not no secret I sleep every spare moment.” Fingers move to untie the coat from his back. “Just give her what she wants, yeah?”

“No. Stay right where you are. We don’t know who she is, Selam.”

True — Azalee herself is armed, and can make fast work of the suddenly threatening man in front of her, but she has already categorized him as friend — she does not want to change that designation based on miscommunication. “I am from Dune, Mirtus,” she reminds, gently, dropping the wooden daggers and holding her hands up even as she falls into fighting stance. “I did not realize in the city it is such a huge offense to leave one sleeping. Check the front pocket of the cape — I have a written report of my strengths for potential employment opportunities. It is all as it appears.”

For a moment, there is no movement — finally, breaking the silence, Selam begins to make noises of crinkling paper and fumbling. Azalee suddenly notices how round and boyish his face appears. After a few soft curses, Selam narrows his eyes, staring at the paper sleepily, before mumbling, “Uh… Az… uh-lee?”

“Right!” She smiles, eyes following the pages as Mirtus rips them from his mate’s hands and reads them himself. His black eyes glitter, and his face looks much more gaunt and severe than originally realized — after reading them over once, he leans forward, allowing shadows to shade his expression. Wordless, he offers them to her and Selam throws her the already removed cape. She catches them both and she beams back.

“We’re sorry,” Selam says, standing tall to reach as he instantly drapes his arms over Mirtus and nudges him in a way that appears meaningful. It takes a few seconds, but Mirtus seemingly shakes distrust from his figure — after a single shudder, he stands up straighter, and his serious face stares at her with a glitter of apology in his dark eyes.

“Yes, we are. I did not mean to automatically distrust you, Azalee.”

“No, no.” As she rolls up her papers, Azalee offers another gentle smile, eyes squeezed shut. The anxiety of the situation is thawing from her heart at their rueful reparations. Her cape is retied around her neck, heavy with humidity and the warmth of Selam’s body, as she speaks. “I understand. No need for apologies, my friends.”

At the word ‘friends’, both Selam and Mirtus smile. Azalee is studying their faces again, wondering why facial features that were lost to her only minutes before seem sharp and clear now, when she hears a squeal behind her.

PART TWO