A calm, confident stance was important, and Elliot made sure that he kept his form composed as he took out the practice 'sword'.
Long gone were the days of make-believe...where he assumed that being some sort of hero gifted, as if by magic, with all the talents necessary to live with the honor he so desired would come to him with time. Long gone was the naivety that left him a stupid child carrying around a wooden sword...pretending to be that hero. And with its leave came a ferocious desire to prove himself as worthy.
To prove to all those who batted their eyes at his family...to show those that spoke with low, whispering voices, disgusting gossip aimed at the Nightray Dukedom..and..most of all...to combat those words that stayed with him...mocking him at every corner, the voices of those that doubted, those that pitied, those that tried to manipulate, fueling the flames to a fire that burned with hatred inside of him.
He'd use that fire, as his father had told him to....not only to throw his rage at that damned Vessalius family....but also to build in himself the honor he knew his family deserved. To earn it. To make everyone regret ever doubting him, or the Dukedom in the first place.Ā
With quick thrust forward with the 'blade'.....and a horizontal strike in immediate succession, he made his move. A blow for his anger, a jab for his pride, and one hard strike for all the suffering he had endured through the ignorance of his fellow 'nobles'. He would never be a 'gifted' swordsman. He would never hold the title of prodigy...of genius in the craft....but assuredly no one could stop him from trying. If something wasn't done with all of his energy, all of his strength, all of his will...then it wasn't worth doing at all....and with strike after strike, the boy could feel his strength draining from him.
How many times had he done this, practiced so fruitlessly with a skill he never seemed to better? He wasn't one to give in, to drop what progress he had made, even if it seemed too insignificant to matter...he had to do this. If he wasn't going to bare 'Raven' for the Nightray family...if he wasn't going to be who they needed him to be....then he was going to at least become strong for them.
Taking off a glove to wipe the sweat from his brow, the young nobleman temporarily set the fake sword down. He'd have to clean up soon...to return before hisĀ absence was noticed, but he felt as though....leaving too soon would be detrimental to all the practice he had done today. Maybe if he went for a little longer...worked himself a little harder...he could make today more worth while....If he could time himself...see that his speed has improved, his strikes harder....his blows moreĀ consistent....Ā but as he looked back towards the manor he knew his time for practice was over.
Someone didn't become a Hero over night, after all....and it would be foolish to try to force it.