Born in Beauty

by Melody Rose

  Plus, it was rather distracting to my fellow demigods to have a dozen beautiful nymphs running around with hardly any clothes on.

  Despite the near-naked ladies, the biggest distraction on campus was all of the elaborate ways students asked each other to the dance. Even though it was obvious who was going with whom, the various couples went out of their way to ask one another. Someone spelled out, “Will you go to the dance with me?” in flowers out in the quad. Another soldier used a pegasus and colored smoke to write it out in the sky. One guy even got a couple of Nero soldiers to do a musical number during lunch one day in the cafeteria.

  Not everyone was Love Struck, however. Whereas the Love Struck couples seemed to stick together, the non-Love-Struck students bounced from relationship to relationship. I couldn’t keep up with the drama of it all, but even those who didn’t have a designated partner still wanted to attend the dance, and hopefully not alone.

  However, the one good thing about this whole situation was that my theory about the Love Struck couples and their productivity was correct.

  Students encouraged their respective partners to do their schoolwork and their training. Now that the students could be open with their relationships, they weren’t sneaking around and wasting time. If anything, the steaminess seemed to cool off. It was the best compromise for pretty much everyone but me.

  Thankfully, I had the forge. When I was there, I felt like my mind could finally clear off the excess noise and focus on the work at hand. Ruby was wonderful and let me have the space to breathe and work. I relaxed to the sound of the hammer on metal, to the crackle of the fire, and to the whine of the grinder.

  Oliver’s special project required me to make the props for mine and Ansel’s choreographed fight.

  “Rapiers!” he said as he waved his hands as though he was in a Broadway jazz number.

  “Rapiers?” I repeated, even though I had heard him. “You want me to make rapiers.”

  “Yes,” Oliver swooned. “Beautiful, sleek rapiers with intricate handles that represent your characters. They are the most elegant dueling weapons.”

  “Yeah, maybe, but they’re definitely the most ineffective,” I commented offhandedly. “Also, the Greeks never used rapiers. They weren’t invented until the 16th century in England and Germany. They’re primarily Western European weapons. It was mainly used by civilians and was widely disregarded by the military or on the battlefield.”

  Oliver blinked at me for several seconds, his lips pursed. “Well,” he said slowly, “you’re just a wealth of knowledge, aren’t you?”

  “That’s kind of her thing,” Ansel said with a shrug. “Weapons and myths.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was teasing me or complimenting me. But Oliver didn’t give me a chance to find out. He barreled on.

  “We’re not concerned about the battlefield, dear. It’s for show!” Oliver threw his hands up in the air dramatically. “Now, there’s nothing quite right in the armory. All of their weapons are dull and bland for our purposes. We need something that will catch the audience’s eye, which is why I need you to make brand new rapiers for the show.”

  “Greeks never used rapiers,” I argued, not really wanting to make the complicated weapons. Rapiers appeared sleek and beautiful, but it wasn’t easy to get them that way.

  The blades were long and thin, but durable even under the most stressful situations. They widened at the base by the hilt, but the increase in thickness was miniscule, and true blacksmiths knew how to hide the gradual change. However, the most ridiculous part of rapiers were the handles. The guards were always fancifully designed, often for decoration rather than function. It was frivolous and complicated.

  My specialty was functional weapons. While I considered smithing an art, I hardly ever spent the amount of time it would take to craft the handles, let alone the blades to make sure they could stand up to the force Ansel and I would surely put them through.

  There was no changing Oliver’s mind once it was made up. That’s how I found myself battling Ansel in a luscious skirt.

  “No, there’s no way I’m fighting him in that,” I said as I crossed my arms across my chest and stepped back from Oliver. He held out the practice skirt, a long, thick piece of fabric that reached all the way down to my ankles.

  “You will have pants underneath it,” Oliver argued like that fixed everything.

  “Then why do I have to have the skirt at all?” I spat, wishing the article of clothing would burst into flames in his hand.

  Oliver lowered his arms so the skirt dragged along the floor. He leaned back and huffed out an exasperated breath. “Because you are Penthesilea, the great Amazonian warrior, and they all wore skirts.”

  “Why do we have to do this story?” I asked for the thousandth time. “I mean, why can’t we just be two soldiers fighting over a woman or something.”

  “Because you are the woman,” Oliver said. He swung the skirt over his shoulder and approached me with open arms. I flinched away, but he took hold of my upper arms and held me in place. “It would be a crime to disguise you as a man. Plus, Penthesilea and Achilles is a passionate love story with a mighty battle between equals. It’s perfect for the dance, especially if you’re trying to get Eros to come.”

  I leaned back from Oliver and groaned.

  “Just put it on, Cheyenne,” Ansel said from the other side of the training room. He had his own arms crossed, and his practice rapier hung lazily from his hand. “The sooner it’s on, the sooner we can be done.”

  “Fine,” I relented as I held out my arms. Oliver swiftly swung the skirt around my hips and tied it in place, not giving me a chance to second guess my answer.

  “You know,” Oliver grumbled. He pulled the strings unnecessarily tight on the skirt, and I released a pained hiss. He either didn’t notice or didn’t say anything. “This isn’t going to work if you two don’t get over yourselves.”

  “We’re doing your show, Oliver,” Ansel snapped. “That doesn’t mean we have to be happy about it.”

  “But it’s not going to work if you don’t feel it,” Oliver said as he whirled around to face Ansel. He clutched his hands into fists, desperation all over his face. “It’s not as though I made it difficult. It’s a fight sequence which you both are naturals at and a love story. Considering how you feel about each other, it should be easy.”

  I coughed as I picked up my practice rapier from off the rack. “We don’t feel any sort of way for one another.”

  “Oh, that’s bullshit, and we all know it,” Oliver said. He twirled his finger around towards the three of us as if we shared a secret.

  “It’s not like we have to be in love the whole time,” I argued. I did a couple of practice swipes with the protected sword. “It’s only after Achilles takes off her mask that he falls in love with her.”

  Oliver stomped his foot like an insolent child and growled. “You’re missing the whole point.” The drama teacher walked over to us and put his hands together as if in prayer. “What is the story of Penthesilea and Achilles?”

  “We’ve been over this, Oliver,” Ansel said, but Oliver held out a hand and shushed him.

  “I’m asking the myth encyclopedia over here,” Oliver said, never taking his eyes away from me. “What is the story?”

  I inhaled deeply before speaking. “Penthesilea was one of the fiercest Amazonian warriors, being a daughter of Ares. She swore her chastity to the Amazons and was one of the twelve to help the Trojans in the war.”

  “Then?” Oliver prompted with his eyes and eager voice.

  “Then,” I said, mocking his tone, “she got into a one-on-one fight with Achilles. She was one of the only people to match him, but he managed to kill her. Before she died, he took off her mask and fell in love with her.”

  “Why did he fall in love with her?” Oliver asked.

  The question threw me off. My brain whirled for the answer, searching through various myths I read, but it came up empty.

  “I don�
��t know…” I stammered. “Because she was beautiful?”

  “Ah!” Oliver exclaimed. He held up a finger and straightened his back. “That is the obvious answer. It’s because she was the only warrior to match Achilles blow for blow. They built a sexual tension during the course of their fight that by the end, they were in love with each other.”

  “There is no textual evidence to support that,” I reported, disturbed by this interpretation of the myth.

  “But there is no textual evidence to refute it either, is there?” Oliver countered with his suggestive eyebrows. He already knew the answer before I said it aloud.

  “No,” I grumbled.

  “But there is textual evidence to support the fact that they wouldn’t be fighting with rapiers,” Ansel pointed out cheekily.

  Oliver rolled his lips over his teeth and scowled at Ansel, who shrugged in response. I held back a chuckle which turned into an unintentional snort. Ansel shot me a wink while Oliver steamed. The son of Dionysus inhaled deeply, eyes closed, and re-centered himself.

  “So,” Oliver said as he clapped his hands. “This fight is going to be a journey. The tension will radiate off the two of you. It will be so loud and so intense that Eros will have no choice but to arrive to see what’s going on. He’s going to feel so left out. But instead of a kiss and a happy ending, we will give them tragedy and death.”

  “That’s…” Ansel searched for the word. “Disappointing.”

  “Cathartic, my dear, cathartic is the word you’re looking for,” Oliver said pointedly. “Now, let’s go over the beginning that we practiced last time.”

  Ansel and I positioned ourselves three feet apart and held out our rapiers. They were weak blades, made only for simple sparing. The ones Oliver designed would be stronger, able to withstand the intense blows. However, these were safer in case there was a mistake or two, a missed blow or mix up.

  I began the slow sequence. I never moved my feet but simply reached out with the tip of my sword, aiming for his right side. He lazily blocked me, and I moved quickly out of his way to swipe across the front of him, which Ansel shifted out of the way, able to see the blow coming.

  We paused and eyed one another.

  He was the first to move his feet. He walked to the side, as if along the edge of a circle. I followed, keeping our three feet between the two of us. We were predators, considering the other one prey. When we found our new positions, I reached out my sword to test him.

  Ansel’s sharp reflexes came out and knocked the tip of my sword away and aimed a swipe for my face. I dodged it, leaning my upper body away. My hair swung off my shoulders and cascaded down my back.

  After a breath, I moved the battle forward. I pursued him with a three-step combination that he expertly countered. His next move was to follow me with those same moves, but forcing me back. I didn’t let him get me back more than three steps before I changed up the rhythm.

  Like a tennis match, we volleyed back and forth. We exchanged move after move, the clang of our thin blades sounding like twinkling bells in the expansive training hall. We moved through Oliver’s choreography, never letting up on one another.

  That was until the instructor stopped us.

  “Enough, enough!” He waved his hands dramatically and pushed his large body between the two of us. “This isn’t working.”

  “We’re doing what you told us,” Ansel defended.

  “You’re doing the moves, yes,” Oliver agreed, but he hissed the words through his teeth. “But where is the passion? Where is the intensity?”

  I dug the tip of the blade into the floor and leaned on it lightly. “We told you, Oliver, we’re not actors.”

  The son of Dionysus twirled his mustache, lost in thought. “I have an idea.” He crooked a finger at Ansel. “Walk with me.”

  The two men ventured over to the other side of the hall. Feeling left out, I quickly picked up the pace to follow them, but Oliver held out a hand when I got close.

  “Not you, Cheyenne.” Oliver waved his hand, shooing me away. “Stay over there.”

  My expression clearly said: What the hell? But Oliver didn’t pay me any mind. He put his hand around Ansel’s shoulder, which was quite a feat considering their significant height difference. I was surprised that Ansel let the teacher get that close. Their voices were too hushed for me to eavesdrop properly. So I obeyed and hung back.

  After a minute, the two came back to the center circle where we practiced our fight. Oliver shuffled over to the side and sat down in an oversized armchair he brought in specifically for our training sessions. It was also one of the only ones on campus that would fit his massive frame.

  Looking like a king on his throne, Oliver lifted his chin. “Start from the beginning.”

  I sighed and looked at Ansel, trying to share an exasperated look. But when I caught Ansel’s eye, there was something different from frustration in his eye. It was a determined look, one I’d seen him use on the battlefield more than once. His lips curled up into a half-smile, tempting and teasing.

  “Ansel?” I breathed, unsure about this new motivation he’d been struck with.

  “Begin, Cheyenne!” Oliver called, breaking me out of my reverie.

  Like a robot, I began the first sequence. The difference in Ansel was immediate. He never looked away from me, and the snap in his movements was swift. I tried to find the difference as we circled one another, but he didn’t give me time to analyze. He picked up the speed and raced through the practiced choreography. I kept up at his new pace, so much so that I found myself panting as we completed the sequence.

  There was a brief pause as we finished, my chest heaving up and down from the extra exertion. I looked over at Oliver, who sat still in his chair, waiting for instruction.

  “What next?” I asked the teacher.

  The words barely left my mouth when a tingle ran up my spine. I knew that sensation as I sensed a blade of metal hurtling towards me. Only because of that instinct did I manage to avoid Ansel’s strike. He lunged for me, and I twirled out of the way to avoid getting pierced in the side.

  “Whoa, Ansel!” I exclaimed. “What the--?”

  Once again, the soldier didn’t give me a second’s pause. He attacked upward, and I parried from the fifth position. Ansel pushed down on my sword, but I slid my blade along his and knocked the hilt of my sword against his blade, a resounding ting flying through the air. Ansel maintained a hold on his sword and forced me farther back.

  He kept his blade aloft, taking the upper hand. I had to crouch lower, especially when he swept through the air and aimed for my head. My breathing labored as I found a surge of energy and pushed back, so I wasn’t always on the defensive.

  Our blades clicked together, countering one another like a dance. Ansel never relented. He pushed the fight around the room as he forced my feet where he wanted them. I managed to find a pause in his sequence to aim low, my blade missing his calf by an inch. However, the soldier blocked me with a sudden move to the third position.

  I quickly recovered my blade and aimed for his side. Anticipating me, however, Ansel twisted himself and blocked me with his sword hand behind his back. I continued my momentum and spun around so that my back was to Ansel, a cardinal sin of dueling.

  I sensed his rapier come up behind me over my right shoulder. My blade stuck out awkwardly, but I managed to get the block. Next, he dove low, surprising me by sticking the blade between my legs. My stance was weak, and I knew I couldn’t get the block in time.

  So I jumped.

  It was the first moment I had away from actively fighting. With my back already turned away from the son of Apollo, I dashed off away from him.

  “What the hell, Ansel?” I called out over the pounding of my own heart. I leaped up on one of the elevated platforms, used to teach territorial and various terrain combat. I hoped the higher ground would give me an advantage and take Ansel out of the fight long enough to talk some sense into him.

  “What’s wrong with y
ou?” I asked.

  His answer didn’t come in the form of a verbal response. Instead, the soldier joined me up on the platform and pointed his sword at me again. I sensed the direction of his blade as he swiped it violently across the front of him, from left to right.

  I met the blade at the bottom of the swing and blocked it, though the force of his blow vibrated all up my arm. I almost dropped the weapon but managed to regain myself as I prepared for another strike from Ansel.

  I didn’t know what the hell Oliver said to him, but whatever it was had lit a fire under his ass. The whole time, he seemed to be enjoying himself. It was clear that he was winning, and he loved being in this position of power.

  Normally, I would have found his smirk endearing, cute even. But right now, I was annoyed. I couldn’t stand this onslaught. I was tired and busy and didn’t need to be pushed to the end of my limits. I was already there.

  So I switched up the game. I didn’t directly block one of Ansel’s jabs. Instead of meeting him with my sword, I met him with my hand. I grabbed the blade in mid-air and clutched it in my fist.

  Normally, this would be a stupid thing to do with a rapier, considering it would rip my skin to shreds. If used with enough force, the whole thing could chop my hand right off. However, these were practice blades. They were dulled for safety, and I used that to my advantage.

  A sharp inhale of breath echoed throughout the training arena. I didn’t know where it had come from. Instead, I put all of my focus on holding tight to that blade.

  Ansel tugged and tried to rip the thing from my hands, but I reinforced my grip and latched on with two hands, dropping my own rapier. Ansel’s lips curled into a smile, and he yanked me back harder.