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“Do you have any idea how to use this?” Nom asked as he turned from his anvil, a newly made diamond sword gleaming in his hands.
Scott perked up from where he’d been sitting on a barrel under the shade of an oak, the little orbs of light he’d been trying to make dance in a consistent pattern popping into errant sparks. “Oh, uh, well,” he glanced to the side, avoiding Nom’s stare, as nonthreatening as it was, “No? But I’m sure I’ll be fine. It’s just for stray monsters, nothing that difficult. Just, hit them with the sharp edge, yeah?”
Nom leaned against the anvil, raising a brow. “And how much do you know about keeping your edge aligned?”
Scott eked out a small shrug. “... Not… Much.”
“Have you ever held a sword before, Scott?” There was a teasing lilt in the knight's voice, but there was a firmness to his tone that betrayed his serious edge.
“No…” he replied, aimlessly brushing hair away from his face as though the movement might disguise the embarrassed flush which heated his cheeks.
Scott hadn’t thought much of asking Nom to make him a sword beyond the practical fact that, whether he liked it or not, he was in a war. He was responsible for his own safety, and knowing his own record, spells weren’t always going to save him. Ever since he’d gotten stuck in a cave with a skeleton and had to fight it with nothing but a pickaxe, he’d decided a sword was an unfortunate necessity. He was no knight, but… it had a pointy end. He could probably stick something as simple as a monster with it without too many issues. Probably. Given the lightly exasperated face Nom was making at him, he figured the viewpoint wasn’t shared.
Nom sighed and stepped down the shallow stairs from his makeshift blacksmith, passing close enough to pull Scott up from his improvised seat. He made a small startled sound as the cold metal of his gauntlet curled around his wrist, but the hold was gentle. He stumbled in the knight’s wake as he was guided to a clearing amongst the half cleared rubble of the kingdom, shaded by oaks with fire blackened bark and carpeted by soft wind rippled grass.
“Here, I’ll show you. I can’t turn you into a knight, but I can at least make sure you know how to swing a sword,” Nom said, glancing over his shoulder to send the mage one of his customary crooked smiles.
It did help to calm the anxious fluttering that had stirred in Scott’s chest. Nom was very good at that, he was starting to notice. The knight let go as they came to a stop, the abated pressure leaving him unmoored as he shifted in place, waiting for a new direction to follow in the unfamiliar territory. Spinning the sword smoothly around, Nom offered the grip to the mage. He swallowed at the easy handling, the bright blue flash of the blade under the dappled light shining through the trees overhanging their makeshift arena, and the gleaming near invisible edge he’d watched the knight slave over sharpening. Scott had figured carrying a sword might make him feel a little better about the situation he’d been thrown into, but looking at it, actually seeing its ready live edge, had the light about him shimmering from ill-concealed nerves. He glanced at the blade, then up at Nom.
The knight was smiling; not mocking or annoyed, just steady.
“Come on, I’ll show you the ropes, you’ll be fine,” he said, and though he was garbed in a sharp blackened plate, something about the crinkle of his smiling eyes behind his glasses managed to make him appear soft.
Gingerly, Scott wrapped his hand around the leather grip. He half expected to lurch from the weight as Nom let go, but the sword rested light and easy in his hand. He shifted his grip, trying to find something that fit. The knight tutted at whatever he was doing, and soon his hands returned. Not to the blade, but to guide Scott. The leather on the inside of his gauntlets was rough and warm compared to the armour as he adjusted his grip, uncurling and curling his fingers, setting the oval shape neatly in the hollow of his palm.
“There we go,” he said, giving Scott’s arm a pat. “That’s where you want your hand. Technically, there are a few different grips for an arming sword, but this will do. What you need to focus on is keeping your hold relaxed but not too relaxed. Not like that,” he stepped up to his side, hovering over his shoulder as he nudged at the mage’s arm until he let the tension in his wrist bleed out, “Like this. Better.”
Scott diligently kept his attention on the sword as Nom’s breath brushed hot past the pointed tip of his ear.
“Right, got it. Sort of,” Scott muttered, trying and probably failing to feel out the happy medium, though whatever he settled on seemed good enough to avoid comment.
Placing a casual hand on the mage’s shoulder while directing him with the other, Nom kept talking. “So, for your hits to count, you’ll want to keep your edge aligned with the direction of your cut, and the way you hold your sword is going to have a lot to do with that,” he explained, some of his jovial tone replaced by seriousness. “The shape of the grip will help you tell where your edge is, its flat aligning with the flat of the blade and the narrow points to the edge. As long as you’re holding it right and don’t twist your wrist as you swing, you should be fine.”
Scott nodded, doing his best to take all the information in. He gently mimed the action of swinging the sword, burrows furrowed as he tried to see the words in practice. Judging by Nom’s hum, it wasn’t a particularly successful attempt. His fingers tensed around the grip, teeth gritting as he fought not to shift in place.
“This… feels like it won’t work,” he winced, trying not to look at Nom’s face.
The knight was nice, he helped Scott when he asked and seemed ready to jump to his kingdom’s defence in the few minor skirmishes he’d already seen. Certainly, he was one of the better things to come out of his forced servitude. After his disaster of a first impression, he’d already seen most of the kingdom look at him with expressions ranging from doubt to pity to what felt like it could only be condescending fondness. But Nom, he’d simply been normal, which might have been the most comforting thing of all in the chaos. Scott couldn’t help but cling to it.
“Hey, we just started,” Nom said, squeezing his shoulder and half pulling him against his armoured side in the process. It was cold and steady against him, clinking almost musically at the pressure. “I haven’t even shown you footwork, or how to use the chain of the body, let alone any guards. Not like I’m expecting you to be a master anyway. You have magic, and while I am the last to disparage the impressiveness of knights,” even though he wasn’t looking at him, he could hear that softening smile in Nom’s voice, “Magic is pretty crazy. I won’t pretend to understand even a little of it, and I probably never will. But, with a bit of practice, bravery, and strength, anyone can wield a sword. Besides, I’m not letting you wander off with this thing until I’ve seen you know some basics. I’m not that irresponsible.”
Scott took a deep breath, doing his best to nod along, even as the unearned compliments made him flush with a bubbly sort of happy-shame. “Right, okay. Are we, uh, going to learn all of that?”
“Eh, sort of. I’ll show you, and we can practice a bit, it's mostly so you at least know some basics. I’m not expecting any proficiency here,” Nom said, relaxing his hold. Instead, he pressed lightly down on his shoulders. “Lower your centre of mass, it will keep you more stable. Shift your feet a bit too. Here and… here, good.”
He shuffled as he was nudged into position, the knight walking a slow circle around him and occasionally tapping him back in line. Nom stopped in front of him, looking him up and down, brow crinkled from focus in a way that made his glasses slip ever so slightly down his nose. Compared with his heavy dark armour, Scott couldn’t help but find the juxtaposition of the sturdy but smart frames rather endearing. He’d noticed they usually came off when getting into a fight. Perhaps that’s why the mage had developed such a fondness for how they shaped Nom's face. They made him softer, meant he felt safe, which meant Scott must be safe as well.
Eventually, the knight smiled, clapping his hands together. “Huzzah! Now you won’t get knocked over by a stray gust of wind. Let's show you how to swing it.”
Scott couldn't help but feel rather silly holding the sword and listening to Nom talk, despite how earnest he seemed. The strong stance felt strange when he was used to taking light steps as he snuck through the forests and fields, the weight in his hands unwieldy compared to the heft of a tome, each stance and cut he was guided through too rigid against the fluid conducting demanded of spells. He tried, though. Nom’s guidance was gentle but firm, instruction clear and cheery, but never once did the weight in his voice waver. It was evident in the faint furrow between his brow, even as he smiled, that the knight was being serious.
He traded out the diamond sword for facsimiles of stiffened leather—he called them dussaks—so they could do something approximating sparring. Scott was under no illusion that the gentle taps he received when Nom wound around his guard and the few clumsy swipes he achieved were nothing approximating a real fight. But, with clumsy steps that slowly steadied and swings he eventually managed to muster some of his elven grace to guide, he did his best.
In the end, his best earned him grass stains on his clothes.
Nom strengthened against his weak guard, blowing his blade to the side and scraping the leather edge over his shoulder. Had it been steel or diamond, he had no doubt even the weak hit would have sliced to the bone. He yelped, stumbling back. His stomach lurched as his centre of mass slipped a fraction too far. The sun dappled canopy flashed overhead as he began to fall. Nom had lunged forward with his strike, drawing close enough to throw out a hand to catch him. Fingers curled in his cloak, the knight’s warning rang in the air, but their combined momentum proved too much.
With a thud that knocked a gasp from him, Scott hit the soft earth. A second later, he nearly screeched as a tremendous clatter sounded right beside his head. A shadow fell over his face, and with wide eyes, he blinked dazedly at the space above him.
Panting, the knight looked back.
Nom had just barely managed to catch himself before crushing the mage beneath his armoured bulk, one arm braced beside his head and the other just to the side of his shoulder. The plate covering his knee dug into the side of Scott’s thigh. Framing his face in soft waves, his hair shone caramel about its sunlit edges. His eyes were wide in a mix of surprise and alarm, breath teasing too hot against the mage’s already heated cheeks. The knight’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. Beneath them both, the earth hummed, fresh green sprouts and little sparks of yellow flowers blooming in Scott’s periphery. Chest rising and falling as he tried to catch the breath that had been knocked from him, all he could do was stare and try to ignore the cold unyielding breastplate that pressed back when he took too deep a breath. For a few heartbeats too many, it seemed it was all Nom could do as well, until he shot up with a clatter of metal.
“Oh, gods, sorry! I meant to catch you, not, uh, nearly crush you,” he gasped out between a wince and laugh, quickly pulling the mage back onto his feet and fussing about brushing away the leaves clinging to his cloak.
Words stuck in his throat and refused to dislodge as the knight’s hands ran over him, gentle despite the gauntlets of wicked dark iron he wore. Scott simply stood frozen stiff.
Nom continued, hands coming to rest on the mage’s shoulders as he ducked into his line of sight, checking him over with insistent glances. “Are you alright? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
With a jolt, he shook himself from his strange freeze, cheeks burning from the squeak in his voice as he tried to reply. “Fine— I’m fine. You didn’t hurt me at all, it was just the fall, nothing bad.”
Nom frowned, seemingly disbelieving but not finding any proof otherwise. With a final fix of his cloak, the knight stepped back. “Alright, I’ll take your word for it. Maybe we’ll call it here for the day. You look pretty tired.
Scott puffed out a laugh, his chest still burning faintly. The cool breeze was welcome as he leaned against a tree. “Yeah, uh, good plan. I have to give you knights more credit. I mean, I knew this was difficult, physically speaking, but I never really stopped to think about how complicated it is. It’s, uh, very impressive, Nom.”
The knight rubbed the back of his neck, smile a little scrunched. Despite the tumble, he managed to look remarkably put together; hair only handsomely tousled and just a faint flush to show. “Ah, thanks, I think. It takes years of work to get to where Graecie, Owain and I are. Lots of sparring, lots of strategy lessons, lots of referencing the masters’ manuscripts. The works. Athletics is only part of it.”
“I can see that now,” he chuckled, noting how Nom’s cheeks had darkened. Maybe the brief bits of training had exerted him more than he’d thought.
“Your head is too full and you can’t get your lungs full enough, yeah?”
“Exactly,” he drew out. His breathing was starting to level out, but he still ducked his head with a depreciating chuckle. “Maybe I should go on more hikes or something if I get tired so easily. There’s not a lot of exertion involved in being a florist, I’m afraid.”
“You’re fine, Scott. It’s kind of cute,” Nom said easily, before he abruptly froze. Eyes widening, he cleared his throat, stare darting up to the canopy and pointedly away from Scott. “Ah, well—”
The mage couldn’t help but burst out into a proper laugh, the sound chiming in the crisp spring air. “Cute? I’m struggling to breathe, and you’re calling it cute?” he teased, grinning at Nom as he stammered through a response, cheeks now a proper rose red.
“I mean, not like that!” Nom struggled to get the words out between his own bubbling laughter, voice cracking as he choked them out. “Just, like, your face, when you’re all flushed, it’s cute!”
“I’m a mess!”
“And your eyes go all narrow, and you start pouting when you're trying to focus. It’s like— I don’t know, what do you want from me?”
“Nom!” Scott’s laughter was turning into something more breathless, his flush rising to the tips of his ears as the knight kept talking, sparking a fuzzy fluttering feeling inside. About his boots, green sprouts began to unfurl—their leaves opening to the emerald tinted light—and purple flower buds forming.
“Your freckles also kind of glow. Did you know that?That’s stupid it’s your face, of course you know. It’s just, more obvious when you blush. They like— it’s like little gold flecks on your cheeks, or stars. You know when the sun is setting, and you start seeing the stars come out? Like, that! Or something. It’s kind of pretty, is all I meant. I wasn’t trying to— I don’t know. You’re just— You…” Nom swallowed, laughter petering out as his mind caught up with his words and left him in the quiet of Scott’s unsteady breathing. The knight cleared his throat, face nearly the same red as his heavy cape which still hung askew from the fall. “It’s… pretty. Sorry, I wasn’t trying to be rude.”
“No— It’s— You’re fine,” he stammered out, the fluttering feeling having turned into a flurry that stirred up hitches in his throat. “Thanks.”
Scott did mean it; it was sweet of the knight to be so nice to him, despite the clumsy and seemingly entirely accidental manner. Most knights seemed kind of blundering outside of combat, even if Nom was one of the better ones. Scott figured he could hardly talk on the topic of coherence and charm anyhow. He stared at the ground, as what he realised were purple lilacs swayed in the breeze, young and still blooming. He tilted his head a fraction. Usually, he grew a simple scattering of local wild flowers, the species varied and unspecific. Conjuring a singular type… Well, it had to mean something?”
On cue, Nom leaned over his shoulder, presence palpable even if he wasn’t touching him. “Oh, those are new. Do they mean something?”
“Hm? Oh, maybe? My magic isn’t much of a science, so, probably. It’s all instinct and emotion based. Like attracts like and so on. Some plants or phenomena have sympathies or antipathies to each other. I haven’t figured it all out yet, so, I can only guess that it’s about my mood in some way,” he said with a shrug, calming at the topic change.
“Ah, that’s cool. Never really thought about how that sort of thing worked before. They seem like good flowers, though. I haven’t got you growing brambles,” he jested, though Scott could hear there was some kind of squeaky strain in the back of the knight’s voice. “They’re pretty.”
“Like me?” The fluttering in his chest must have unmoored his smarter senses, as he shot the knight a teasing smile too fraught to play off as smooth.
Nom chuckled, his expression softening. “Yeah, like you.”
“Oh, uh, thank you, again,” the teasing was immediately overcome from the unexpected answer, the butterfly sparks surging bright hot within the weak cage of his ribs.
“No problem,” Nom said, smile sharpening for some reason at the reaction, and in an act that seemed to flip gravity inside of him and send all the sparks in a blinding jolt to his mind, winked at him.
It was almost quick enough to miss, and Nom turned away almost immediately, clearing his throat and glancing around like he was looking for something to do. It still took Scott too long to regain his wits. Long enough that the knight started speaking again. He just barely managed to decode the words as he wrestled back his ability to focus on anything other than the warmth he was desperately trying to ignore.
“If you, uh, did want to go hiking some time—maybe if you had rare flowers to find, or resources, or just, wanted to get out—maybe I could join you? Always good to have a knight on hand in the wild. To keep you safe, yeah? Until you have a better idea of how to use that sword,” Nom took the sheathed blade from where it was leaning against a fallen tree trunk, and turned back to Scott, presenting to him with a smile the mage might have called shaky, had he thought Nom the type to be shaky about anything, “Does that sound good?”
Scott stared at the sword, edge hidden inside blue stained leather. Its hilt glittered silver and cyan, and refracted the spring green of the leaves above and soft purple of the lilacs now in full bloom about the mage’s feet. He glanced between it and Nom as he gingerly took up the blade. Attaching the scabbard to his belt was an easy enough task to distract himself as he mustered the coherence for words, which was more difficult than usual with the knight hovering so close. Without the sword to hold, Nom fiddled with his own hands in the silence, gauntlets creaking.
Eventually, Scott straightened and put on his best casual smile. “Yeah, that would be nice. I’d like that. Spending time with you, and having you, there, for me,” he stammered out, sentence disjointed but at least sensible.
He must have said the right thing regardless, as Nom’s face lit up. Dark eyes gleamed gold where the light through his glasses hit them just right, and his smile creased them into soft, bright shapes. Scott smiled back, smaller but just as warm.
“Great! Amazing, just, tell me if you have plans and we can— We can do that!” He clapped his hands together as he took a step back, armour clinking as his shoulders dropped into a more relaxed stance. “I’ll be around, just stay safe.”
Scott gave a small wave as the knight made his way to the blacksmith. “You too, Nom. Thanks for the lessons!”
Nom paused, shooting him a grin. “Ah, it’s nothing. You’ll just have to teach me about flowers sometime.”
“How on earth is that going to be remotely helpful?” he said, cocking his head at the knight, bemused.
“So maybe I can understand those.” He inclined his head at the flower about Scott’s feet.
The lilacs swayed around him, the tallest brushing against his thighs and entangling the hem of his cloak. Magic still shimmered about their roots. Little pale sparks of light like fireflies slowly drifted up until they were caught in the wind and sent flurrying away like embers. Scott made a small noise of understanding.
“I’d teach you how if I could,” he sighed, smiling sheepishly.
He wished he knew half of what they meant. Most flower meanings he knew; he had them memorised from arranging orders upon orders of special bouquets with messages encoded in carefully chosen petals. Scott did, of course, know the classical meaning of purple lilacs, but magic was a strange thing. His understanding of his own magic was too lacking to say what they really meant or why had he summoned them instead of the norm. At least he told himself that, and he let the flimsy belief bleed into the white lie as he and the knight said their goodbyes.
Scott wasn’t sure what he’d do if his first guess was actually correct. If they meant what he thought they did. If he’d have to identify the fluttering in his chest not as anxiety but as something else entirely. His hand settled on the cold pommel of his new sword as he turned on his heel, walking from the impromptu field of flowers as swiftly as he could, letting the space between him, it, and Nom settle his denial into something less flimsy.
Now was not the time for flights of fancy, let alone something as outlandish as his flowers suggested.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
Purple Lilacs: The first emotion of budding love.