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The cargo hold wasn't an ideal sparring ring, but revolutionaries could hardly be picky about such things. It was empty (mostly), and it was safe (for now). Milius took in a deep breath, and felt the knife in their palm twist as they flexed their hand.
Your gunplay is adequate, all of you. But diversity of tactics can make a good soldier great.
Titus had made the decision that each of them would spend time training their hand to hand combat, and here they were, standing across the cargo hold, abandoned scraps of load scattered to the corners of the room, locking eyes with Nemesis.
Milius ducked in, swiped the blade. It was not the deadly weapon they would be carrying into battle in the future, but it would leave a hell of a bruise if it connected.
It didn't. With an effortless flourish, Nemesis brought one of her blades to bear and knocked their strike aside. They redoubled their efforts, tried to overwhelm the older woman with strike after strike.
The ring of metal on metal filled the room. Soon Milius was panting, desperate to push through their opponent’s guard.
“Your fury is commendable, child.”
Nemesis spoke softly, but her words slipped in like one of her blades. Milius sneered. Something about that calm mask made them want to break it. To force this woman to stagger.
When they closed in again, they noticed too late the frown on Nemesis's face. There was no exchange, no raining of blows. Nemesis swung once with one hand, once with the other, and suddenly Milius found their knife flung across the room.
“Stop.”
The command snapped them out of their wrath. They realized now how childish they'd acted. This was a sparring match , not combat. They were supposed to be learning, not competing.
Nemesis retrieved the knife and placed it into Milius’s hand. Reaching out from behind them, she guided their arm.
“You hold your weapon like a snake. Do not fear it. You control it, not the other way around.”
Milius shifted, trying to relax. Trying to quiet the inferno in their heart. They felt the breath of the older woman on the back of their head as she leaned forward, gently pressing their arm into a different stance.
She smelled of…something flowery? Milius hadn't seen a flower in years, but they remembered the scent. It was subtle, and had they not been so close, they wouldn't have sensed it.
“Stubbornness is not enough. It must be tempered into purpose .”
She showed the young warrior a series of slow movements, with gentle words and firm hands. The fire in their eyes was not dampened by correction, but focused. As she watched them learn, seize on every word, she felt something…stir. Like a scab on your knee breaking. Or a stone pulling apart from the freezing and thawing of morning dew. Tiny, almost imperceptible changes.
And when Milius turned back and saw her, they froze.
There was a smile in Nemesis's eyes. And maybe, just a little bit, on her lips. The pride in those eyes brought a new fire to Milius, one that neither of them really had time for.
They settled for a glance at lips that were no longer pursed.