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“Again.”
Felix’s temper had been at a low simmer for almost an hour, and it finally boiled over. “What now?” he shouted. It was obnoxiously loud in the empty training grounds, reserved for these private lessons. “What could you possibly find wrong with that?”
The professor, as usual, was completely unruffled by his outburst. She put a hand under her chin and considered her words with no urgency. “It’s too... perfect.”
He scoffed. “That’s not a thing.”
“The point of this competition is to learn the flow of combat through dance. For most people, that’s more natural,” she said, heading towards the rack of training weapons. She weighed several wooden swords before selecting two. Then she dipped into the chalk that people used to dry sweat from their hands, dusting the blades. “But for you...” She dug the toe of her boot into the sand and carved out a square around them, then handed him one of the swords hilt-first. “We’ll have to learn dance through combat, I think.”
“What’s with the box?”
“This line is a wall. Touch it and you lose.”
“What battlefield would ever be so small?”
“A bar fight,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Perhaps it was, for a common mercenary. “Or have you changed your mind about being a knight?”
Her tone was deadpan as ever, and expression hadn’t changed, of course, but there was a subtle spark of amusement in her eye if you knew what to look for. Just a few months ago, he would have thought it impossible that the fearsome Ashen Demon the boar had dragged into the monastery was teasing him. But he’d learned that she did, in fact, have a sense of humor, though it was drier than the meat in the dining hall when Flayn was on kitchen duty.
“Obviously not,” he said with a huff.
In their seminars, the other professors always began with an overview of what they’d be learning. But Professor Eisner offered no monologue, only action.
After a deep breath, she stepped into a familiar position, feet together, hand out to her side and sword pointing up to the ceiling.
“First position,” she said.
He’d mostly trained himself out of interrupting, telling her that of course he knew first position. It was the first thing he was taught when he was five years old. But after half a year of instruction, he’d begun to understand that the professor never said anything without purpose.
She shifted her feet slightly and bent her wrist so that the sword pointed away from her to the side wall.
“Second position.” Instead of third position, she moved the sword to a diagonal somewhere in between the first two. “So, what is this?”
“It’s... nothing,” he guessed.
“I’m doing it.” Her other hand gestured unnecessarily to prove it. “It can’t be nothing.”
There came a point in every class where he was forced to shelve his ego and admit that she simply knew better. Surprisingly, it arrived sooner and was easier to accept with every passing day. There was no shame in deferring to someone as experienced as the professor.
His training at the academy had revealed shortcomings he didn’t even realize existed. He’d overheard Linhardt say that a wise man understood that he knew nothing. Which was just philosophical garbage, but Felix had been humbled enough times to realize that an entire library couldn’t hold all the information he didn’t know about sword fighting.
The professor, on the other hand, seemed to have been everywhere and done everything. Like that proverbial wise man, her hunger for new knowledge was unquenchable.
And yet she clearly didn’t consider herself anything special. She didn’t lord her knowledge over someone, never expected a student to know any more than she’d told them. She was better and stronger than any of them could ever hope to be, but she only used that strength to teach, to protect.
It was... admirable. Felix had said as much to Sylvain once, who, of course, interpreted it as some sort of romantic interest. Which it obviously could not be further from the truth.
“Okay,” he said, mind open and ready to learn. “Tell me what it is.”
“When you learn one form—” she went back to first position— “and then another—” second— “you neglect an infinite number of positions between them.” She repeated the motion, but smoothly this time, sword curving in a graceful arc instead of snapping from one angle to the other.
“You’re limiting yourself,” he said. If he preened a little when she nodded approvingly, well, that was just admiration, too.
“The flowing movements of the dance aren’t choreography. They’re training. You need to be ready to attack from any angle, spot any opening, and respond to any move your partner makes. Not just the ones you expect.”
“I’d go to a lot more balls if I could bring a sword,” he said, mostly to himself.
She snorted. Not quite a laugh, but a reaction, a glimpse at whatever was under that implacable blank face of hers. It wasn’t often someone got a response like that out of her. He pretended to wipe sweat off his face so she wouldn’t see his little pleased grin.
Her amusement didn’t last long, though. She settled into position a moment later and beckoned him.
“Come at me.”
He did, and holding nothing back, either. But he couldn’t so much as touch her. When he jabbed, her arm wasn’t where he had expected it to be fractions of a second ago. Her hand had moved in a small, circular motion, maybe only a few inches in diameter, but it allowed her to evade his attack with minimal effort. But that wasn’t all; he puzzled over a line of white chalk across his sleeve. It had been too fast to see, but apparently her twist passed over his arm, exposed from his larger swing.
“Your hand is gone,” she said, flat as ever.
They reset, and he attacked from a different angle, with the same result. Her movements were so small and subtle that she could react instantly to whatever he did. He tried a few more times, just to watch her, and eventually he recognized the motion.
It was very similar to the part of the dance he’d been performing, where he twirled his hands in a fast rhythm, looking like a complete idiot.
After his fifth severed sword hand, he was forced to admit that a frontal assault was doomed.
“You must lead your partner,” she said as he caught his breath. “Guide me to where you want me.”
He tried to think of his footwork in a new light. What were the steps meant to teach him?
The next time, he didn’t come at her straight on, but in an arc. This placed him at the elbow of her sword arm, where she wouldn’t be able to swing. If this were a dance, he would gallantly take her other hand, and they would glide gracefully together to the right, where she would turn and present herself to him with a demure curtsy.
But it wasn’t a dance, and she definitely didn’t curtsy. Instead, she turned in a perfect mirror to him and elbowed him in the gut hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs. He felt her sword come down on his back and knew he now sported a chalk line to denote his severed head.
But then she retreated and nodded. “Good. You learned.”
That was about as high a praise as one could expect from the professor, so it soothed away most of the sting of his wounded pride.
He wasn’t sure how long it went on like that, failing in one way repeatedly, then overcoming it only to fail in a new way. The chalk marks all over his body were good reminders of what mistakes not to make again.
But he was starting to understand, developing the reflex to anticipate and replicate the professor’s movements. Though they were subtle enough to look almost gentle, that finesse allowed her to adapt to his every move, redirecting and completely neutralizing his attacks.
Finally, muscles aching and drenched in sweat, he managed to score the first chalk mark on her pristine cropped shirt. It was hardly a lethal blow, but it was tangible proof that his skill and strength had grown.
She didn’t give him long to revel in his triumph, though. After throwing their weapons carelessly aside, she assumed the position of a dancing partner.
“Again,” she said. “Without swords.”
He stared, dumbfounded, at her outstretched hands. “W-with you?”
“Yes?”
The end of the word raised up in a confused question. Right, this was dance training, and you danced with a partner. He cleared his throat and stepped up to meet her. He laid his hand gingerly in the curve of her waist. Rolling her eyes, she grabbed it and replaced it on the small of her back, the motion pulling them closer together.
It was easier to move with more fluidity after the exercises with the sword. They didn’t follow the exactly prescribed steps of the dance. There was no need to, since they were able to read and respond to each other’s movements instantly.
Knowing the purpose of the footwork, he could act based on intuition rather than rote memorization of the steps.
But now there was another challenge. The professor was... very close. He was acutely aware of his sweaty hands, to say nothing of her chest grazing against him and the bare skin of her back where he touched her.
Why did her clothes have so many nonsensical cutouts, anyway? If it was meant as a distraction technique, it was certainly effective.
“Face forward,” she chided.
He obeyed, at first. But it wasn’t long before his gaze wandered around the room again. He disliked making eye contact, even with the professor, who was... less annoying than most. Dorothea had told him she felt the professor could see right through her, and he understood why.
Lots of people in Faerghus had blue eyes— the old man, Glenn, and the boar included. But those were nothing compared to the professor’s huge doe eyes, which weren’t just blue; they were bluer than blue should be, almost purple. The intensity of the color was only matched by that of her stare, unflinching and evaluative. It was hard not to feel exposed under that gaze.
She huffed, lowering her gaze a bit. “Look at the middle of my forehead if you’re uncomfortable.”
An unfamiliar guilt pricked at him. She said things like that often enough to reveal that she’d been treated as some kind of monster before she came to the monastery.
Apparently, a boldness that Sylvain would have been proud of existed somewhere deep inside Felix. He let go of her hand briefly to tip her chin back up and did his best to keep eye contact.
Her eyes seemed softer, somehow, and happier. This close, he noticed things about her face he’d never seen before. An old, thin scar running the length of her cheek. A mole on her throat that was usually covered by her high collar. The way she blinked twice in rapid succession, fluttering her long lashes. She hadn’t exerted himself nearly as much as he had while fighting, but there was a pink flush high on her cheeks and a dewiness to her skin, like she was fresh from a visit to the sauna.
He decided adding a spin to the dance would be a good idea. If only to give himself a moment away from her face to collect himself somewhat. Her back pressed against his front, the top of her head right below his nose. She must’ve used lavender oil in her hair, which felt like something far too intimate to know about his professor. Luckily, she didn’t elbow him in the gut this time, but let him guide her a few steps and then twirl her to the side.
“And the dip,” she instructed.
He’d been hoping she might forget that part, but of course, only a fool would bet on Professor Eisner making an error.
He wrapped his arms fully around her and pulled her close, her body pressing against the full midline of his. Keeping a tight hold on her, they dipped together. She was confident enough in his skill that she even raised one leg into the air.
He was supposed to maintain this position for at least three seconds, but it felt like an eternity leaning over her, their faces almost near enough to feel her breath on his skin. Her wild curtain of hair fell back over her shoulders, revealing her full face and her collarbones. Her lips were parted slightly, breathing more heavily than the exertion of the dance alone could explain. The heat radiating from her thigh pressed against his had him in similar distress, a furious blush burning on his cheeks.
And yet, he couldn’t imagine letting her go. Having her nestled safely in his arms felt right, like they fit together in a way that transcended this moment. She looked out for all of them, but who did the same for her? Who would carry her when she finally faltered?
He’d aimed to grow strong enough to surpass her, but perhaps what he really wanted was to protect her.
A low whistle echoed through the still air, and he nearly dropped her on the ground. The absurdity of his thoughts slammed into him. Him, protect the professor? Had he gone mad?
“Wow, Professor, can I get a private lesson like that, too?” Sylvain teased from the doorway. Apparently they’d danced away the entire afternoon, and it was time for class again.
The dance didn’t seem to fluster her the way it did Felix, but of course, it was always hard to know what was going on inside her head. “Sure,” she said, as flat and unaffected as ever. “Sylvain, I’ll be your partner for training today.”
Felix snorted, and the rest of the Blue Lions broke out into giggles behind Sylvain. Even the boar had to hide a grin with his hand.
“Aw, come on, Professor!” Sylvain whined. “You know that’s not what I meant!”
“Oh? Did you mean to imply something else about my teaching methods, then?”
Not even Sylvain was self-sabotaging enough to make inappropriate accusations right to her face. “No! I mean, no, of course not! I... wanted you to be my partner for training, of course.”
“Excellent. We’ll be brawling today.”
Sylvain let out a mournful wail, to the further amusement of the Blue Lions.
Had he been inclined to tell them, no one would have believed Felix about what happened next. Byleth Eisner, their stoic professor, the Ashen Demon of legend, caught his eye and winked. Though, for reasons that he would only understand years later, he didn’t want to share that moment with anyone.