entrancelogs | [Backdated to January 16th; OPEN]

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[Backdated to January 16th; OPEN]

Who: Aramis and ANYONE
Where: A makeshift training room of sorts
When: Morning, January 16th
What: Aramis is training; the last few events have made it obvious he should stay sharp.
Rating: PG; will update if required

He'd discarded his doublet, chemise and boots on the floor near the far wall. Sword in one hand, dagger in the other, he moved through the room, cutting swathes through invisible enemies as he practiced various forms. He was focused on what he was doing; he might not notice a visitor immediately.

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"You get used to the weight. Weight is good when you're thrusting," Aramis explains, making a stabbing motion into the air between them with the dagger. "Gives it power."

He moved to stand beside him. "Try it. Aim at the chest of the invisible man in front of you. Run him through." He demonstrated the motion with the smaller blade. "It takes a slight twist of the wrist."

Wow. Luke stifles his laughter, casting a wide-eyed glance Aramis' way. He probably doesn't mean it how it sounds. Aramis is a classy guy who is, most definitely, not a mind reader. They would have put that in the books if he was.

"I'm not really into..." and his stupid brain can't think of a way to explain his very singleminded devotion to pacifism without making it sound really dirty.

With a supremely awkward motion, he shoves the sword forward. He's too distracted to mimic Aramis properly, and the sword winds up skittering off to the side. "That wasn't very powerful, was it?"

"Go easy on yourself; it's your first time. You have to understand the basic strikes before you can even think about learning what I was just doing." He demonstrates the motion again. "Try again. Concentrate on keeping the blade level and putting some force behind it. The most effective areas to strike a human body are protected by bone and sinew and they're not easy to penetrate."

There sure are easier places to penetrate. Luke's turning red just thinking about it. He wonders if this conversation is less suggestive from Aramis' perspective, but then he remembers what 'stabbing' is French slang for and decides no. It's probably not.

"Not sure if I should be learning to penetrate anything like that."

He thrusts the blade forward, this time focused on copying the flow of Aramis' hands. Better than last time, he thinks, but it annoys him how imperfect the gesture is in comparison.

If he was in a playful mood, he might find it suggestive. He might even make a sly innuendo about the fact that he was experienced enough in both types of penetration to give him pointers on either. But swordsmanship is his craft and he takes it seriously. The easy grace with which the movement comes is borne of a lifetime of study. He picked up a sword for the first time at a younger age than Luke is now and has scarce put it down since.

"It can't hurt to know how to defend yourself. I'm not suggesting you go out and try this on your friends." He nods his approval when Luke makes his next attempt. "That's better. Again."

That makes him smile. A proper, wide smile that brings with it confidence and ease of movement. Not that it does him much good. He's never going to be graceful, and he's never going to have the upper body strength to do this well, but he relaxes enough to break free of stilted jabs and go for longer, smoother movements.

"Who said I don't know how to defend myself?" He flicks his wrist okay, but his arm wavers with the effort and he takes an unsteady step sideways to keep balance. "Just 'cos I don't go around stabbing people to sort out my problems."

"I beg your pardon," Aramis replies graciously. "What method of defence do you use when attacked? Perhaps this arrangement could, in fact, be an exchange of techniques."

"I run away."

The inadequacy of that answer makes him laugh at his own ridiculousness. So much that he oversteps on his next thrust, tripping on his own feet and stumbling as the weight of the sword carries him into a stoop. When he regains his balance, he decides he should probably hand this sword back over to Aramis before he ends up slicing his own kneecaps off.

"I'm pretty good at it. Probably better than you."

Aramis chuckles. "Entirely likely." But he's being kind; he's fit enough to run pretty damn fast, if it suits him to do so.

He accepts the sword back, tucking his dagger back into its scabbard.

"If you change your mind about lessons, let me know. I've taken on a couple of students already."

An uncomfortable look flickers over his face. He enjoyed the lesson while it lasted (possibly a little too much), but that's just the problem. Learning how to stab people in the chest shouldn't be thrilling. It should feel wrong.

"I don't want to kill anything." He smiles apologetically, crossing his hands over his front. "It's awesome! But I can't. I can't do something like that."

"Indeed, I would hope you'd never have to. Though from what I've seen, people in your time take defensive lessons purely for physical fitness."

Donna had told him about many 'fitness fads' from her time. A great many of them were just amusing.

"Apparently, remaining vigourous is an issue by the twenty-first century."

All that statement earns is a tight shrug, and sketchy nod of the head. Luke could never hope to match up to Aramis' superior strength, skills and knowledge, but he's dead right about one thing. The twenty-first century doesn't care how athletic you are. Thanks to technology, Luke's murdered more people than Aramis could probably even conceive of.

"For some people, I guess." Not Luke, who has a natural energy coupled with a lifestyle that hinges on breaking into military complexes on foot. But there's a more important implication to that sentence that's way more interesting than sports. "Why, who've you been keeping fit with?"

He shakes his head. "Nobody lately."

Which is a little frustrating and might explain the desire to release energy in other ways. Donna's departure followed hard upon by the incident between his Mirror and Elizabeth had made him both slightly more reclusive and somewhat more restless.

"But a friend of mine used to discuss your time at length and in detail."

Aramis' response earns him a knowing, sympathetic smile. He's being subtle right now, but a certain other lady wasn't. "I miss Donna too. You know she was trying to learn French before she vanished?"

Just talking about her is like evoking someone long dead. There's no more chances for Donna, now. She's not going home to her old life. The Donna they both know is gone. There's no need to tell Aramis about something he can't do a thing about, but as much as he tries to keep his voice light and teasing, the maudlin expression creeps over his face. "She was terrible at it. Near miss there."

"Mm. She demonstrated." At rather an intimate moment that he wasn't about to go into. "I thought it was charming." In its...terribleness. But she was English.

He glances at Luke, catching his expression.

"She was a friend of yours?"

Luke knows (or thinks he knows) what 'charming' means. He tried his best, but he and Donna weren't exactly on the same page when it came to rigorous grammar.

The question brings up happier memories. "Yeah! We're practically family. I helped her save the universe once." And the thing with the Daleks had been brilliant fun, right up until it became one of the scariest nights of his life.

"I haven't seen her for a long time, back home. I'm glad I got the chance to meet her properly. She was really amazing." He leans towards Aramis in earnest. This might be gushing, but who deserves it more than Donna? Her boyfriend should know her brilliant legacy, if Donna can't remember it for herself. Everyone should know. "The things she did were impossible. you have no idea how brilliant she's gonna be."

He frowned slightly. "What do you mean, 'impossible'?" he asked. "What does she do?"

"There's these people. Daleks. Millions of them. They were going to kill everything." He shifts uncomfortably at the memories. That night alone, facing the end and waiting to see if mum would come home again. The first time he'd ever felt truly afraid of what would happen to them.

"But she stops them. All by herself. That's what she's gone home to do. She saves all of us."

Millions of them? And she stopped them by herself? ...Donna wasn't a warrior. Far from it. She was determined, that was for sure. Relentless, even. Could she win such a battle with sheer force of will? Well, if anyone could...

"I see. I suppose it's good that she's gone then, if she'll save the whole world."

For a moment his expression is entirely blank, because no. Nothing that happens with Donna is good. But then he barrels on with a laugh, like he was never concerned to begin with.

"It's good whenever any of us get to go, isn't it? We don't belong here. You don't want to stay stuck here forever, do you? You must have stuff to do back home, too"

Treacherous plans to depose the king and become Pope, maybe. Ordinary Musketeer stuff like that.

Deposing a king is so far in his future, he can't conceive of having the notion. He frowns slightly. "I suppose it would be a better thing if we all went at once."

A pause, and he considers something Luke said earlier.

"If you don't want to learn swordplay, why did D'Artagnan try to teach you how to hold one?"

For exactly the same reason he took up Aramis' offer. And Luke makes that obvious when his gaze slides down to his bare chest and then knocks off to the side as he strives to hide his reaction.

"Oh, I wanted an excuse to hit him with a pointy stick."

"D'Artagnan has that effect on people," Aramis remarked wryly, pretending not to notice the look cast along his body. He'd never been on the receiving end of it from a man before. What were you supposed to do in that case? "Do you oppose all forms of self-defence?"

Luke doesn't know what you're supposed to do either, but it would be nice if it involved standing like this a bit longer. And flexing.

The question is a sensitive one. It dives right into the mental pressure to obey his mum's pacifist instructions (if not her violent, defensive actions), and his anxieties about morality, the inescapably pervasive idea that he's bad and wrong and was created to be that way. It also makes him feel like a bit of an idiot.

"No," he mutters. "It's just me. I don't touch weapons. Don't get into fights. I don't want to hurt anyone."

"That's a noble goal," Aramis tells him. "But a lofty one. What if someone seeks to harm you?" he asks curiously.

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[Backdated to January 16th; OPEN]

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