In love and in war, drabble 6: the one where you meet your match
Description: Join Ciel, the Earl of Phantomhive, as he embarks on one of the most difficult challenges of his professional life: getting you to fall in love with him in order to become the next chairman of TransAtlantica, your father’s vast shipping empire.
Warnings: none!
Author’s Note: This is the first part of drabble six!! Thank you all so much for your thoughts on splitting the chapter! I’ve never done this before, but I’ve missed you all so much, and found myself at a compelling place to cut this very long drabble in half, I couldn’t make us wait any longer.
You all inspire me so much, thank you all endlessly for your patience. I’m very motivated to finish the second part :) and I hope you all like this one, in the meantime!!
Happy Reading,
Dan
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MASTERLIST
St. Dunstan’s Athletic Hall, London, 1895
Y/n Y/l/n
Your team was the favorite to win, and that estimation was not simply your ego speaking; statistically, it was the truth. You only needed to see it through.
Anticipation sat in the pit of your stomach—the hungry, desperate sort that your etiquette master said a lady ought to keep tamed beneath depths of saccharine sweetness, never for public observation. As typical social rules dictated, you were always to be the polite, well-read young lady. A diamond in your lineage’s crown. As the only Richmond heir, you had to embody the gem’s sparkling polish, its brilliance and its toughness, in a way.
Dust moles flew in the air, illuminated by the sun streaming inside the expansive hall. Augmented by the hall’s large windows on both sides, morning rays warmed your back. Foil fencing blades chimed in conversation as teammates practiced amongst themselves. The familiar scent of wood varnish made your nose tickle.
You stood proudly with your team, folding each arm over your chest in two quick, consecutive, stretches. You used the warmth that seeped into your biceps as an inconsequential distraction from the various spectators filling inside and settling. Finally, your familiar fencing uniform—a navy cycling-style skirt with covert trousers beneath, and a white blouse—made movement easy. You pushed one of your twin braids behind your shoulder and brushed any stray hair away from your face.
The panel of formal judges hired by the Young Women’s Fencing Society took their seats at their distinguished table, and teams of fencers clustered together on the main floor. You were well aware of where your parents were situated in the hall, it was the same viewing area where all the organization’s sponsoring nobility perched, each watching with varying degrees of interest. The other ladies on your team hailed from other such families, as well.
Your fencing collective’s summer tournament was officially about to commence.
This was one of the few days you traded in your silk gowns and decorative fans for sporting uniforms and regulation blades—a day where you couldn’t afford to overburden your mind with thoughts of your marriage deadline, TransAtlantica…Lord Phantomhive…your mind supplied unhelpfully.
Especially not Lord Phantomhive.
The thought of the enigmatic Earl made your breath quicken even more than the judging panel’s arrival had.
Last week, an unusual scheduling mishap forced you to cancel your planned tea—apparently Daphne had mismarked your agenda and your mother needed you for an unmissable gown fitting that afternoon. You worried your letter of apology to the Phantomhive estate hadn’t fully conveyed your disappointment. His answer had been polite enough, but that did nothing to douse your simmering nerves.
Focus, Y/n, you commanded yourself. You had a tournament to win—a series of individual bouts to win for your team. Any loss would reverberate across your social world. The consequences wouldn’t be your sole possession—they never were.
Squeezing your eyes closed for a moment to collect your thoughts, you refocused on the piste separating you from your opponents. There was no time for this. Your teammates were counting on you, your father was.
Your restless fingers twisted at the family ring you wore around your thumb, betraying the last of your nerves before you banished Lord Phantomhive from your mind. Just for now, while you obliterated your opposition.
You observed the Hampstead Ladies’ Athletic Circle without a hint of delicate reverence you usually constructed for your acquaintances. For once, it was expected that you ignore those around you and focus entirely on the battle you were about to wage. The only acceptable kind for a lady of your stature.
Thus, your expression mirrored a general’s grave austerity. Although your mouth was relaxed in its neutral line, your sharp expression was intense enough to catch the look of Lady Amelia Jennings, another fencer from across the elevated fencing stage in the middle of the hall. You only offered her a simple nod in greeting, nothing more.
Fencing was a sport of discipline, strategy, and precision. Your blades would do the talking for you, first and foremost. Most of all, you cherished the elegance and energy its mastery demanded.
At your sides, your teammates shared the same enthusiasm that rattled your pulse. You realized they’d been chattering this entire time, while you’d been venturing through your overlapping thoughts.
“I do rather like our chances today,” said Lady Elizabeth Midford, one of best fencers in the Young Women’s Fencing Society. “I saw a ladybug land on our carriage’s door handle this morning. That must mean good luck,” she asserted. The blonde held her blade casually, with as much ease as most ladies might hold a purse or fan.
“I tend to agree—there are only eight teams fencing. This tournament is ours,” your third teammate, Lady Vivian Tate, chimed in. “Bloody Yorkshire ladies cannot compare to us.”
“Isn’t that why we defeated them last season?” laughed Lady Samantha Davies, the foil fencer who completed your team. “Who broke the all-time match high?” She asked rhetorically of the three of you.
“We did!” You all chirped variations of the same affirmation.
“I know we will do it again!” Lizzie pulled you all in for a close group hug. The four of you were some of the highest ranked foil fencers in the ladies’ fencing division.
Your team’s reverie calmed to silence as a singer led the entire athletic hall in a mandatory rendition of God Save The Queen.
Ciel Phantomhive
The air smelled of leather and wood polish, as expected of a tournament, shrill whistles screeching here and there. Groups of fencers stood in scattered huddles on the main floor surrounding two considerably sized pistes, or fencing platforms.
Along with the rest of the hall, Ciel and his butler rose to the opening notes of the national anthem. The Earl pressed the palm of his hand flat over his, he attempted to spare the anthem at least a fraction of his attention, but his true focus was on locating a certain team among the small groups of young women.
The Young Women’s Fencing Society was the beloved contrivance of Lord Y/l/n and Lord Midford’s. Had it been anyone else’s pet project, Ciel doubted it would have persisted beyond a passing idea. Ever. Much less garner enough public support to fund and fill an athletic hall of this near-cavernous size. Half the spectators watched from floor stands, half watched from the balcony seating around the perimeter of the space.
Typically, London’s aristocracy held an unmistakable disdain for women’s sporting events, but Her Majesty seemed to admire the value in fencing’s mandatory grace and technique. Most women in her royal mob learned it—why not encourage those part of her subjects’ most elite families?
With Her Majesty’s approval, the Earl Richmond and Ciel’s uncle constructed an advisory board, and from there, reworked the sport into something just feminine enough to be appropriate for young ladies.
That was why a good half of polite society was spending their Sunday here. At a women’s fencing tournament. The practice caught on. The theater, the ritual of it, the overzealous fundraisers and galas the society insisted upon to accompany the tournaments. To them, the appeal was obviously the performance aspect more than it was the sport. Most ladies couldn’t replicate a shred of the lethality his cousin possessed—and they simply weren’t coached to.
Someone’s father would absolutely bribe one of the judges to let his daughter dearest take the win.
That being said, Ciel’s personal feelings about the matter were irrelevant. This pointless event was the newest way he was throwing his time away in this seemingly endless pursuit of Lady Y/n’s hand in marriage and the company privileges he’d wed all the same. Despite having known Elizabeth and Y/n were teammates since the start of the season, Ciel hadn’t intended to exploit this particular angle at the beginning of this scheme. He’d deemed it too direct for his style.
That was, at least, before her mother forced his hand by canceling their afternoon tea. It had been set for this week.
“Just to the left, sir,” Sebastian said, an unmistakable note of something humorous in his tone that Ciel disliked. At his side, the butler scanned over the crowd, amused. Always with disconcerting amusement. He was a demon, after all. Strange bastard. “You’re in Lady Elizabeth’s natural sightline. It’s only a matter of seconds before she notices you.”
Following Sebastian’s direction, Ciel noticed Lady Y/n and Elizabeth, the elevated fencing stage separating them from their opposition. Their team match was one of two simultaneous matches, the fencing collective’s announcer explained once the singer completed her rendition of the national anthem.
“Good, I told Lizzie I’d make an appearance today,” Ciel said. At this point, all of high society had to know of his intent to court Lady Y/n Y/l/n this season. But just as well, they knew of Lord Adam Kingston’s interest. His attendance today was a matter of winning over the lady.
Ciel would take any advantage of any opportunity he made privy to him. That had always been his way.
TransAtlantica was his damn inevitability.
Lady Y/n
The moment the applause for the anthem came to an acceptable lull, Elizabeth turned to the three of you, smiling wide as her vibrant emerald eyes searched the audience behind you. Her warm excitement was a stark contrast to the stoic seriousness you wore and lack of contribution to your team’s chatter. Your first bout of the day was scheduled first for this team match.
Your palms were sweaty around your foil’s handle. You were surrounded in all directions — spectators, stared down at you from the balcony and some peered from the outer stands on the same floor, judges, attendants, two large scoreboards.
“So, ladies,” Lizzie couldn’t seem to contain her energy, bouncing on her soles. Her attention split between your team and scouring the rows of society members around the hall for someone in particular, to your confusion. Her immediate family, Lord and Lady Scotany and Lord Edward, were in their usual seating arrangement. Who else could she be looking for?
“My cousin finally agreed to watch us today. We absolutely must make the trip worthwhile, I swear I’ve been begging him for ages.”
Vivian gasped, her focus immediately jumping to the spectators with a newfound sense of urgency. A wide smile parted her lips. “Do you mean…” She started to ask. Her hands lifted for a moment, as if she was tempted to smooth out her bangs.
For lack of interest in the conversation, your mind started to wander. The Midford family tree was not a lineage you were familiar with, and you doubted the attendance of her cousin would have any particular impact on you. Unfortunately, your mind couldn’t cram in much more than the occasional thought of—
“Oh!” Elizabeth grinned, clapping her gloved hands together with enthusiasm. “There he is, with his butler!” She waved to the stands with renewed energy, just a touch more than she’d aimed at her parents, just a few moments ago.
“Ciel!”
Hearing Lord’s Phantomhive’s first name made your stomach drop. Seeing him in the balcony stands caused the first real break in your stormy expression all morning: stunned, then daresay, enthusiastic? You smiled, unable to help yourself.
The Earl looked about as composed as he always was, his discerning eye sharper than lead crystal. Untouchable, devastatingly good. Against the sunlight, his deep cerulean morning coat appeared darker in contrast, matching his eye. Raven hair fell just slightly over his eyepatch, reaching the narrow bridge of his nose.
Ciel Phantomhive
Ciel acknowledged Lizzie’s faraway greeting with a wave, his chin nodding down at her. He couldn’t hear her speak over the expansive hall’s chatter but he could only imagine what his cousin was saying about him.
He allowed his lips to hint at a smile, one of familial recognition. Support, though he was well aware the prodigy swordswoman didn’t need it. Not here.
Only then, Ciel let himself meet Lady Y/n’s gaze, noting the instantaneous grin that brightened her focused face immediately. That surprised and nervous look—though, vivacious, nevertheless—was probably one of the most promising aspects of Ciel’s week.
It was a promising sign of progress, and a helpful hint that the cancellation of their tea hadn’t been a reflection of his performance at the exhibition or otherwise. Or any indication of Adam Kingston’s. It was confirmation that the cancellation was indeed an intervention by Lady Richmond. Sebastian said that Daphne insisted Y/n’s mother needed her for a pressing matter the entirety of their scheduled time together.
Just what Ciel needed—the vindictive mother and the childhood friend from days fonder posed in his way.
But even so, it would be utterly foolish of him to dismiss the momentousness of that smile illuminating her face. That was an absolutely bewildered, anticipatory look that she’d only reserve for someone she’d hoped to see. Perhaps, someone who had already been on her mind.
Ciel lifted an innocuous eyebrow at Lady Y/n and tilted his head, just so, as if to signal his curiosity. As if to remark, surprised seeing you here. The Earl lifted his hand to offer a familiar wave, a clear and true sign of public acknowledgement.
Going to put your required reading to use, now? Ciel challenged within their shared gaze, the smirk his mouth then betrayed. A lady who could recite The Art of War, having read it in the original Mandarin, might put on something near a decent bout. At least by the standards of the women’s theatrics—forgive him, fencing. Mostly performance, not so much a real competition of strength and grit. The sport differed in fine print.
Ciel assumed she would recall their conversation on the pier earlier that month, where she boasted about her fencing capabilities to him, and he’d answered dubiously. He doubted she’d prove him terribly wrong, but he was prepared to entertain the notion. Outwardly, at the very least. He could pretend she was a decent fencer, if he had to. But he hoped — and assumed — Y/n would demonstrate some degree of talent.
He watched a flushed Lady Y/n say something to Lizzie, who laughed.
Lady Y/n
“Right… Lord Ciel Phantomhive is your cousin,” you said to Elizabeth rhetorically, your smile much more absurdly bashful than the red on your face. How could you have forgotten?
You supposed the familial connection wasn’t often advertised. Before this season, Lord Phantomhive seldom made any appearances at large social gatherings and public events. The rumors about the man significantly outpaced the truth of him among your peers. And yet...this was his fifth purposeful appearance this season, a clear signal that he was courting you. There was no mistaking it now.
You couldn’t decide to look at Lord Phantomhive in the stands with his tall butler or to gape at your teammate further in disbelief. Ultimately, the nobleman won, and you struggled to tear your eyes away from him. He stood in the proximity of his and Elizabeth’s shared family. Not too far from your parents, either.
Lady Elizabeth giggled, bringing her gloved hand up just in front of her mouth. “Y/n, I suspect my cousin didn’t appear today only on my behalf,” she said conspiratorially, smiling innocently. The sides of her eyes crinkled—her enthusiasm helping alleviate the blossoming anxiety in your chest ever so slightly.
Your other two teammates made no attempt to stifle their amused laughs. It seemed you were infamous for being the cause for Lord Phantomhive’s emergence out of his typical social obscurity.
“Oh, I would hate to jump to conclusions,” you answered modestly, eyes still on the Earl. A hyperactive hand twisted and tugged at the bottom of one of your braids.
Elizabeth mumbled something playfully dubious to the rest of your team that you didn’t hear, because you were more concerned with admiring Lord Phantomhive from this vantage point. His ring glittered where his hand steadily held the top of a walking cane. His lips lifted partially in a smirk, suggesting to you that he was already assessing your skill. The Earl seemed mildly amused, as if you were a part of a joke you hadn’t been made privy to.
Lord Phantomhive’s decision to support you so publically was not a light one—an untraditional but not an impolite means of courtship. His appearance had to be indicative of a complex, considerate plan that only the chairman of a gigantic corporation like Funtom would devise in order signal his interest in someone.
That was all the more reason you had to win. With the help of Lord Midford, your father petitioned the crown immensely for this program to exist. The Earl of Richmond knew that he could never have a son, all he could do was invest his time and resources into you, his only child. A daringly progressive move that the Richmond name still had to defend to this day. There was no excuse for you to be anything but exquisite in all endeavors.
You were a competent fencer. You’d have to prove it, as always. Just as you always had to prove yourself in every skill.
For just one more moment, you waved at Lord Phantomhive. You kept the motion as graceful as you could manage before your fencing master called your name. For the umpteenth time, you resolved yourself to win the tournament. There was even more at stake, now.
Ciel Phantomhive
“Now that could be the look of a young lady’s cautious affections, sir,” Sebastian commented, only loud enough for Ciel to hear. The Earl made no effort to look anywhere from Y/n as she readied herself for her bout. Sebastian continued, “it seems as though that that balloon stunt did indeed work in your favor—so much so that the grief you gave me for it is further proven to be entirely unfounded.”
“Shut up,” Ciel scowled, just as the judges called the fencing teams to start their team matches. Thankfully, Lady Y/n turned away to speak to her teammates and fencing master before she could catch the murderous glint in his eye. “Just watch the damn tournament, and try not to do anything ridiculous.”
The demon scoffed mirthlessly, clearly unappreciative of Ciel’s read on his courtship strategies. But honestly! Who would appreciate having to run full force towards an ascending hot air balloon, only to put all of their strength into dragging the bloody thing back down? All in the stifling heat, in less? That affair, even if productive for his cause, was entirely discomfiting.
“Ridiculous? What could you possibly be referring to?” Sebastian asked with enough surprise in his voice to insinuate his offense the word, which caused frustration to prickle in Ciel’s chest. “As I recall, your order was for me to find a way to make this particular young woman fall in love with you. By any means.” His voice was just low enough to fall beneath the cheering audience’s cadence.
“That’s no excuse to have put me in such an absurd situation,” Ciel answered impatiently. More than aware that his words were falling on deaf ears because his butler always had a penchant for making him suffer as much as possible. For humiliating him as much as he could dare. Ever since he was a child.
Bloody demon.
“If your acting were versatile by any means, perhaps I would not have to go to such dynamic means,” Sebastian remarked, to which Ciel couldn’t bother to dignify with a response. He rolled his eyes and refocused on the fencing piste in the center of the athletic hall.
When Ciel didn’t reply, the demon cleared his throat. “With that in mind: it’s the young lady’s turn to impress you with her swordsmanship. Do be appreciative of her efforts and keep the sour grimace on your face to a minimum, if you hope to inspire further affections from her.”
Sour grimace? Ciel had to stop himself from rolling his eyes again, considering Y/n was now aware of where to spot him.
The Earl exhaled a breath he’d been holding since Y/n first spotted him. His gaze traced back to her again. She composed herself well after the shock of seeing him, the only evidence on her face that remained was the flush tinting her cheeks.
Over the course of the day, Y/n would fence at least four times, every match randomly paired fencers to duel. The team with the most victorious fencers in their individual matches proceeded further into the tournament.
Ciel couldn’t expect anything particularly riveting to transpire at a women’s league.
“We’ll be stuck here all day. I’ll do my best,” Ciel answered. He had to cancel two meetings to be in attendance today—one with a silk importer and another with his head of marketing. At the very least, it meant he’d watch Y/n fence, and see what sort of talent the league qualified to accompany his cousin’s. A young woman whom he’d watch mow down reanimated opposition with a relentlessness he could only respect.
“Pay attention, sir. You may be surprised by the lessons you learn,” Sebastian said, likely feeling as though he’d just offered Ciel a bit of sage wisdom. The Earl merely scoffed, watching Y/n brush some free strands of her hair behind her ear. She seemed nervous. Her team’s fencing master announced the line-up for the next few team matches, and Y/n was testing the weight of the foil in her grasp. She was sparring first.
Frankly, Ciel hadn’t anticipated feeling a surge of genuine intrigue from women’s fencing. The lessons I might learn. Please, he thought, stealing a sarcastic glance at Sebastian before refocusing on the piste.
Lady Y/n
Each team match consisted of four bouts between pairs of opponents. The team with the most individual victories wins the match. It took two match losses for a team to be eliminated from the tournament.
As it was your first match after warmups, your body was tense with the weight of all expectations landing hard on your shoulders. You were not going to lose to Lady Jennings. The thought of your father watching you fail was punishing enough—you refused to let Lord Phantomhive be privy to it. As The Queen’s Guard Dog, he would never respect you.
You let this worry fuel your moves, powering each attack and your cautious defense, unwilling to give your opponent a chance. As soon as the greeting pleasantries ended, you feinted high, disengaged around her slow parry, and landed a pointed thrust to her chest.
Point. The whistle blew in confirmation, a judge called out.
You distantly registered the clapping surrounding you. Instead, you reset into your beginning stance, en guard, and fixated on your opponent. You distributed your weight between your feet evenly, anticipating some form of an attack.
As much as you wanted to chance a glance at the Earl, you denied yourself the transgression. It was in your best interest—you had to prove your capability. The first time you met, Lord Phantomhive was condescending towards you after he pulled you out of harm’s way—hence your sharp exchange after.
Now, Lord Phantomhive was spending his Sunday watching your tournament. He likely had manuscripts worth of essential documents that required his approval, perhaps even an investigation for Her Majesty to head. Instead, Lord Ciel Phantomhive chose to take this opportunity to introduce himself to the convoluted world of aristocratic courtship this season. The long, enduring process of finding a fiancée. And it seemed he had his eye on you.
Jennings pressed forward, her attack cautious. You’d almost describe it as languid. The move was predictable and slow, making your parry in sixte was more of a reflex in comparison. You had more than enough time to match her and make up the ground she attempted to cover. A quick riposte you jabbed towards her side almost returned the favor, but Jennings managed to block it.
Your blades clashed, yours controlled and powerful. You hoped to set the tone for the tournament and waited for a second of hesitation to exploit with each bind. You took a commanding step forward and feinted, suggesting you were aiming for the same expanse of torso before pivoting with an agility that took years to perfect.
Point. Another whistle blew, a flag raised. “Valid point for Lady Richmond-Y/l/n!”
Reset, en garde.
Ciel Phantomhive
Lady Jennings managed to score once or twice on Y/n, but it was no use. The game was practically cat and mouse, in favor of the Lady Y/n, which certainly eased the sense of performance Ciel felt he had to display. Compared to hiding his scorn for Biceps for Brains, expressing his satisfaction for her triumph was a trifle.
In one final deft move, Lady Y/n ended what was predominantly a one-sided clash with a stop-hit that her opponent never had a chance to parry. Her strike landed like lightning: sudden and precise. The observation made the Earl stand up straighter as he considered the young woman.
Y/n pulled off her mask and accepted her team’s squealing embraces. Her face was flush with effort, and the relief in her face was clear. Wrapping her arms around a jumping Lizzie, the lady’s eyes found her parents up in the seats.
“Not bad,” Ciel mumbled his admission, confessing to no one else besides Sebastian. The demon merely chuckled in response.
Ciel handed off his cane to Sebastian to free his hands. His applause came in measured beats, not quite so rowdy as his surroundings, but the effort was a proper acknowledgement of her performance.
“She felt she had something to prove,” Sebastian said.
It wasn’t that her opposition was particularly fearsome or gifted thus far, but the certainty in Y/n’s execution was indicative of careful training. Her abilities had to be a product of exhaustive, hypercritical hours spent in bouts and in coaching, Ciel understood that well. He might have ventured as far as to say that he respected it.
It was inconvenient enough to maintain his own curated skill set as a foil; despite relentless complaint, he’d spar with Sebastian or Baldroy once or twice a week in his private salle.
Y/n kept her mask tucked beneath her arm, making an ungainly attempt at holding it in the same hand as her blade. She waved at her parents with her free hand before her gaze snapped to Ciel with a speed that intrigued him.
Engaged, Ciel leaned over the balcony railing in front of him with a hand raised in recognition. This was the theater of public courtship, after all. He could feel the weight of the athletic hall’s attention, and he had to act accordingly. And naturally, validate his intended’s win.
Though, when Lady Y/n finally looked away, the amused curve pulled at his lips longer than necessary for acting’s sake. Strange.
“What are you staring at?” Ciel asked, aware of his butler’s look without having to see it head on. Not with it searing the edges of his periphery. He could feel it, a warning of impending inconvenience on a supernatural magnitude.
“I am merely watching the tournament closely, just as you asked me to, sir,” Sebastian said placidly. He handed Ciel his cane back once the applause came to a lull. “Unless you might have me do something more.”
“Do you recall what I said about ridiculous questions?”
“Certainly, my Lord.”
Y/n’s match set the precedent for a decisive run for the rest of her team. For the most part, they triumphed over Hampstead following her accomplished bout. The only loss was one to many sneaky ripostes that repeatedly tripped up his cousin. She claimed she’d been ‘warming up,’ but Ciel could see the frustration straighten her posture like a taut bowstring. That early failure made her frankly untouchable on the piste for the remainder of her time on the piste.
As for the rest of the long day, the team made easy work of securing one of the competing spots for the tournament’s deciding game. Their team tied with the Yorkshire Ladies, the second seed squad from the winter season’s closing tournament. Back with a taste for vengeance, clearly.
Lady Y/n
As you anticipated, your team had the honor of competing in the final round.
The weight of your past four bouts started to slowly settle into your body, wearing down on your shoulders and formulating a thunderous headache in the back of your skull. A pulsing strain ebbed down your arms and your back, not unlike your heartbeat, which sat in your throat. Sweat dampened the back of your neck, hairline, and palms.
This final match would decide the opening season’s victors. Both your team and the Yorkshires had fourteen match wins each, making every single individual bout essential. Your team could presumably snag the win from the Yorkshires’ clutch, but such a feat would require a near-perfect match.
The fencing masters pulled the match lineup: Lady Samantha first, followed by Elizabeth, Vivian, and you, as the closer. A highly motivated Lizzie recovered the point from Samantha’s loss, and you watched with bated breath as Vivian faced an impending defeat, as well.
As the Yorkshire fencer managed a point, the tip of her foil undeniably flat against Lady Vivian’s side. Your heart sank as the teams’ overall match scores settled fifteen to sixteen, but you still welcomed her off the piste with a trying smile. One that did its best not to betray your worry for the tournament’s outcome.
“She feinted,” Lady Vivian groaned, handing off her blade to an attendant and burying her face in her gloved hands. “I should have watched my peripherals more closely. I should have —”
“Vivian, you fenced magnificently,” you insisted with a comforting pat on your teammate’s shoulder. “Lady Anna clearly practiced a devious sequence like that over and over.”
An appointed judge rose from his designated seat, arm raised and eyebrows quirked to compel the hall into silence. His other hand brought his small, brass whistle to his lips, the shrill sound finally clearing the last of the noise.
The judge called, “Ladies and gentlemen, it appears our final match of the tournament will decide the game! If Lady Y/n wins this match, she will tie up the score and extend the game to tomorrow morning; if Lady Harrington takes it, the Yorkshire Ladies are set to take home this season’s title. This tournament today, folks, will either end an exceptional game of retribution or a miraculous comeback.”
“Lady Y/n Y/l/n-Richmond, Lady Isabel Harrington: prepare!” The judge called, punctuating the order with a conclusive blow of his whistle.
Lizzie pulled you into a tight good luck hug with Samantha and Vivian immediately piling on. For just a moment, you closed your eyes tight, reminding yourself for what felt like the thousandth time, to focus.
You have the chance to save this, you told yourself, you can do this. You have to. For your family name, for your team, for your suitor.
For your own bloody pride, Y/n.
You swallowed hard, imaging that you were washing down your nerves. Your team released you, your fencing master clapping your shoulder in a grandfatherly fashion typical of him as you approached the piste. He handed over your mask. You forced yourself to take a few deep breaths before sliding it on, the prevailing smell of polish, dust and metal in the hall doing nothing to settle your headache. It pounded against your skull, demanding to be felt in only a conglomeration of anxiety, physical exertion, and focus could do.
With an optimistic smile, Elizabeth handed you your foil. With thanks, you accepted your familiar blade. The weight was something of a comfort, the way the handle molded to your grasp. You settled on the main platform, heart pounding faster than any corps de drums could hope to achieve.
You faced Lady Isabel and acted your way through swift sportsman pleasantries. A simple handshake and a retreat back into your starting position: dominant foot forward, the other perpendicular behind it, sword arm extended and pointing.
“En garde… prêts… allez!” Another judge called the start of the bout. A whistle blew.
Unwilling to let Isabel set the first exchange’s pace, you immediately raised your foil and feinted high, towards her upper chest. You were hyperconscious of your whole body’s every sensation—where you stepped, the slightest bend in your legs, the tension in your arms.
When Lady Isabel turned her foil to deflect your attack, you disengaged around her blade too quickly for her to catch at the angle she’d hoped for. She took a frustrated step forward, cheers from a particular section of the hall sounded, pleased with your recovery. It was a promising start.
Your swords clashed sternly when you parried Isabel’s counterattack, but she managed to block your attempted riposte. Your jaw tensed, your gloves crackling when your fingers tightened around the foil. You hadn’t expected her to intercede that riposte—the move was a favorite of yours—and this imbalance gave way to Harrington managing to land an aggressive straight attack against you. In a clever parry, her arm extended a linear thrust that touched your lower rib.
The blow of a whistle and a raised flag signified that Isabel had claimed the first point. The Yorkshire supporters cheered. You refused to risk focusing anywhere outside the piste’s bounds. Ruminating over your doubts could only make for the worst sort of distraction. They always managed to waver your blade and slow your steps.
You reset your measure and returned to your starting position. Confident Isabel would press forward, you prepared to defend yourself, blocking quick attacks aimed at your side. You answered with a parry sixte and exploited the slightest opening in her guard by landing a riposte to her upper chest. She’d been so focused on attacking you, her defenses wavered. The whistle blew, the points evened to a reassuring one to one, and you both reset your positions.
Once again, you feinted high, Isabel disengaged low. Your blade missed by the slightest centimeter, and the referee practically gift wrapped the point to Yorkshire. Frustrated, you countered with a successful stop-hit to her shoulder.
A flare of indignance twisted in your stomach as the judge considered the move. Your chest rose and fell with effort, and you fought the urge to slouch. Much to your relief, he raised his flag and boomed, “valid point for Richmond! We are all tied up, yet again!” Two for two.
You only needed three more points. You let that realization thrust your powerful lunge forward, fueling your foil as it clashed against Isabel’s in a heated bind. She was nimble, skilled, but no more than you were, and surely not half as motivated. Lady Harrington was already engaged, having been betrothed for ages—the politics of romantic possibilities and woes of inheritance were lost to her.
While thoughts of investments, suitors and shares starred in your sleepless nights, most noble ladies were most concerned with the fabric and make of their next commissioned ball gown. Winning for Isabel would be a small celebration. Winning for you was a reaffirmation of your father’s focus on you, the resources he poured into your unconventional education on all aspects related to inheritance. Most other ladies had their men to manage these matters.
You would only have yourself and a careful vetting process to find a spouse that loved the Richmond name enough to step aside and allow you, the most capable person to shoulder its responsibilities. You lived and breathed TransAtlantica.
Isabel blocked your riposte, and her replying blade was just shy of your rib. Undeterred, you pushed back, stepping forward into a lunge with your dominant foot and driving your blade center-mass. Now, it was your three points to her two. Under your mask, you grinned as the tip of your sword made contact with Isabel’s beige uniform.
Although Harrington managed to tie the score, thanks to a quick beat-attack, you were undeterred. You noted her habit of over-attacking directly after the whistle blew, and you let her take the first attack and the right of way, prepared for her favored center attack, which came seconds later. You parried and riposted, catching her shoulder again by seconds.
“Match point to Richmond!” A judge called. All you needed was one last point and the game would be a resurgence for the books. Just one last touch of your sword. You risked a glance around the piste, catching the hope in your team’s stares, the impassivity in your father’s face. Lord Phantomhive’s pride as he leaned over the balcony, gloved hands locked on the wooden railing, as he likely attempted to forecast your next move.
The whistle blew. You could end this, your opponent was tiring, too—you could see it in the way Isabel’s shoulders were rising and falling with her ragged breathing, the slightest waver in her foil. For this point, you lingered back and readied your parry as Isabel shoved her foil center once again. Just as you tilted your blade at the perfect angle to deflect the attack, an invisible force jerked your sword arm down.
Somehow, the unanticipated motion destroyed your balance and your forced your lunge to collapse inward. You struggled to regain your footing and measure, and in that moment of incoordination, Isabel landed a point square in the middle of your chest.
“Not to be outdone quite yet, Lady Harrington regains her ground!” The judge called.
What have you done? For a moment, you lost complete control of your parry. It was as if something pulled it off its path with the same certainty as gravity’s natural course. So sudden and inevitably strong, you felt as if you never could have prevented it. The only way you could describe its suddenness and potency was supernatural and that was ridiculous!
Get a hold of yourself, Y/n.
It was your exhaustion. That was all it could be. You pushed yourself back into your starting pose, trying to tame the way your reset trembled. Your blade faltered, even after a whistle denoted the start of the bout’s final exchange. Isabel came straight forward with a newfound conviction, sensing your worry and imbalance as clear as a shark might catch hints of blood in saltwater. Moving in appropriately.
When you attempted to parry, the same shocking, mysterious pull dragged your sword arm out of the way. It looked as if you misinterpreted the intent of her sword entirely and opened your side to attack, when it was clear she was about to feint center. A move you had already known to predict, given your past successful scores. To your family, the judges, and Lord Phantomhive, you looked as if you second guessed your instinct and purposefully let your blade dip.
As the score ascended four to five, and the victory went to Yorkshire, the world seemed to slow around you.
The pang of apprehension that punctured your chest was indescribable—Lady Harrington may as well have stabbed you clean through.
“And Lady Harrington’s match point concludes our tournament! The Yorkshire Ladies have claimed the Summer Tournament Title,” the judge called out. There was a knot in your throat. You pulled off your mask, more than aware of the crimson spreading your face and up your ears. Painfully aware of it, in fact. You blinked hard twice, mostly to ensure your stinging eyes kept dry, and shook her hand. Once, twice.
What in the world happened?
. . .
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