Learning Curve

Amrothos stood in the middle of his bedchamber floor attempting once again to lift the sword with his right hand. It was one of the lighter swords from the armoury- the kind that his eldest brother used- but, nevertheless, it was still of considerable weight for a boy of seven to manage.

He tried again with just the one hand, holding the hilt with the point touching the floor, but could only manage to lift it a few millimetres upwards. He tried two hands again and with a monumental effort, and some rather precarious wobbling, he could just about manage to swing the tip of the sword upwards so that it was above his head, the hilt clasped between his hands in front of him.

He was getting better at it. He was convinced he was. Soon he would be just as good as his brothers, or perhaps even better, and then he would be allowed to join their sparring training.

A shrill noise resonated down the corridor.

“ROOORTHOSSSS! ROOORTHOSSSS!”

It was his sister. She was yelling for him in that indolent way that two-year-olds often do when they want, or expect something.

Desperately he looked around for somewhere to hide the sword. No one but he knew that he had dragged it from the armoury three nights previously when everyone was asleep.

As swiftly as he could manage Amrothos staggered over to his bed with the sword in tow and just about managed to shove it underneath the pillow before his sister pushed the door open.

Lothiriel stood in the doorway in her nightdress and slippers, her mother’s shawl tucked under her right arm, grinning at having finally found her brother.

“Rothos, play horses?”

“No.” He bit the words out as he turned to glare at her. “Go away, Lothiriel. You know that you are not be out of the nursery by yourself. You are being very naughty.”

He wanted her gone. He wanted her out of his room so that he could go back to his sword practice. There was no way that he was going to play silly baby games when he had more important, more grownup, things to do. If he shouted at her, hopefully it would encourage her go away, even if he had to make her cry in the process.

His anger started to build as he scowled at his sister. Little did he realise that most of it could be attributed to his almost being guiltily caught in the act of his wrongdoing.

Lothiriel shook her head. “I not naughty,” she replied blithely, totally confident of her words.

“Yes you are! You are a silly girl and I do not want to play, so go away.”

A thunderous scowl marred Lothiriel’s features. “You naughty.”

“Well, you are annoying. So go away and leave me alone.”

“No,” she pouted defiantly. “Want to play.”

“Alright. Fine! If you will not go then I’ll just go and find someone to take you back to the nursery,” he yelled, marching past Lothiriel into the hallway.”

It was a mistake.

What Amrothos had not realised was that the tip of the sword he had hastily shoved under his pillow was sticking out. Nor could he have envisaged that once he moved away from blocking its view, Lothiriel would run forward to investigate the suspicious object.

The sound of Lothiriel’s ear-splitting scream reverberated shrilly down the corridor. Amrothos immediately ran back into his room to find Lothiriel wailing uncontrollably, thick tears running down her face as she held her hand out in front of her, dripping red with blood.

“You are so stupid, Lothiriel! What did you do that for?” he yelled, feeling utterly helpless and scared witless.

Unfortunately, yelling did not help at all, and only served to make Lothiriel wail even louder.

“Oh, please, Lothiriel. Do not cry. Please do not cry,” Amrothos begged. But it could not be stopped. Even now he could hear people running down the corridor to investigate the source of the screaming.



He was going to be in so much trouble.