The Perfect Servant

Chapter 14

AN: So...sometimes I lie about when I will update. Don't judge me, I have important things to do like cuddle with my cat and and dwell on my casual existential dread. :P

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I have never been powerful before, not once. Over the years I have learned cunning and cleverness, the art of subtlety, and the sly deceit of obedience, but never power. Power was something that always eluded me-eluded every human. Aravos told me I have the eyes of an apex predator, but I don't, not really. I have learned strength but not power, and the two are very different.

I could be strong; I had learned that after mother's death. I could take a hit or a kick and make no sound. I could listen to insults and harassments, and let them slide right off of me, slick sludge dripping down from an impenetrable wall. I could be cold, and there was strength in that.

But not power.

Power, I had always thought, was reserved for the immortals. Vampires specifically, but I'd considered werewolves and witches to have a power of their own too. Not once had I ever considered humans to be powerful, not even my mom.

It was strange to see yourself in one way, only to learn that it was a pretty little lie.

Balon beat me black and blue. During our first training session, he had began training me with a large stick-or a bo staff, as he called it. It had gone well for a while, learning the proper stances and blocks. That changed when I dropped the bo.

"If you drop a weapon in battle, you are near as good as dead." He had told me, whacking me on the shoulder when I tried to pick the staff back up. From there on out, if I wanted a weapon, I had to first learn to defend myself without one.

"You cannot rely on a stick or a sword as a weapon; you must be the weapon. You must be deadly with or without a dagger in your hands." And thus began my true training. For the first week and a half, training became a bit of a cruel game; Balon placed the bo staff I'd dropped a few feet behind him, but kept hold of his own. The rules were very simple; using whatever method I could think of, I had to get past Balon to grab the stick. If I managed to grab the bo and return into correct fighting stance with it before Balon got to me, I won the game, and we would move on with my training.

I'd started with trickery; allowed Balon to beat me around a bit with the bo till I was tired and pained, and then took a seat on the wet grass, panting for breath. As I'd hoped, Balon took pity on me and moved away from his stance to grab my water bottle for me. I waited until he was as far away as he could get, sneakily creeping up little by little and then making a mad dash for the bo.

Balon's bo connected with my stomach five steps forward, sending me flying back two feet and landing painfully on my back. For what felt like eternity, I couldn't breathe. The air had been knocked out of my lungs, and I gasped and choked, rolling over onto my side in an attempt to regain my breath. Balon tisked above me, his white hair shining silver under the moonlight.

"That was weak and foolish. Aravos told me you were clever, but maybe he was wrong." He was taunting me, and it was working. I had learned a great deal of patience over the years, but Balon seemed to know how to hit right in the cracks of my armor, digging his sharp words deep into my pride. Every day I woke up aching and sore, and angrier than the day before. Not once in a week of training had I been able to land a hit on Balon. As my patience wore thin and my frustration grew, the mask began to crack. I could feel the pieces chipping off almost as if it were a real physical mask I was wearing. A scowl there, a huff here, a smirk from Aravos that told me just how much of myself I was giving away.

My desire to win became so palpable, I could taste it on my tongue; a mixture of salt and iron, and the satisfaction I'd felt when Lord Kane had died by my hand.