The Weight of Disappointment

Sweat dripped from Arinelle’s brow, plastering tendrils of her blonde hair to her forehead and neck. The simple but artful braids and curls of her hairstyle had begun to come loose, but still she did not stop. Her mace slammed against the practice dummy, glancing off the side and she felt her frustration rise. She had to be better than this. This would keep no one safe. This would help no one. This would cause her to be a liability to her team.

The group of Acolytes and Priestesses had long since departed. The occasional Guardian would pause to observe her for a moment but left her to her task. She’d nearly completely annihilated one dummy before moving on to the next. Bits of straw and wood covered the dirt of the training ground and she, herself, was covered in dust, her white dress turning a dingy beige.

The mace slammed again, splintering wood. She shifted back, feet catching slightly with exhaustion, and she cursed herself softly.

“Perhaps a break is in order, Ama?” a voice asked.

She glanced behind herself to see Ser Thelen Morro leaning against a wall, watching her.

“Not yet,” she responded, perhaps a bit more tersely than she intended.

“You can barely hold that mace and shield up anymore,” he pointed out.

“An enemy will not wait for one to rest when a battle is long. One must learn to fight even when their arms tremble with fatigue.”

He made a non-committal sound.

“Have you anything of import to say or are you simply here to distract me, Ser Morro?” she asked, the question coming out breathless as she redoubled her efforts against the dummy.

“Imparting some wisdom,” he responded, a half-grin curling his lips.

“Your wisdom has been duly considered.” She bashed the dummy with her shield, hopped back.

“And clearly ignored,” he sighed. He watched her another moment longer but when she didn’t respond, he wandered away.

She had lost sight of her training in her eagerness to explore her newfound friendships and relationships. That was not acceptable. Her lack of dedication would do them more harm than good. Even if the Commander had not bid her to practice daily, she would have done so of her own accord.

She could still hear the muffled amusement of the Acolytes. The disappointment and doubt in the Commander’s gaze. The weight of expectation, of her own resolve, settled on her shoulders like a mantle.

She could do this.

She had to do better.

There was no other option.