On the 37th trial of Ymiden during the 718th arc...
The rains had yet to let up, coming and going but enough that it was safe to say it had been near constant for the past two trials. The din of the steady beat of the heavy droplets against the roof of the training grounds only added to the general noise. Doran had learned several of Wayan's forms - committed them to memory through repetition. There was always something new to be added, slowly and gradually, and though he had not yet once set foot out on the floor to spar, he was a patient man and one accustomed to noticing incremental differences over yearning for drastic changes in the grand scheme of things. Progress, as Wayan had told him on the day they'd met, was slow but steady. There was no rushing the dance, no shortcuts to be taken, and though Doran was quick to learn, his reflexes could only be trained so fast.
"Good. More fast." His teacher, the weathered, withered woman with bright eyes and knurled fingers steadily clapped a rhythm as she watched him, keen gaze flickering over his movements. The speed of her tempo increased, and so did Doran's steps and turns and dips and dodges. "Stop. Again."
Each mistake he made was addressed. Perfection, however difficult - or perhaps even impossible - to attain, was sought after with a vice-like tenacity by the pair of them. He nodded, resuming his staring position, feet spread in a natural stance, knees bent, hands at his side, and entire body tensed. When the clapping began once more, he moved. From his breathing to where his eyes settled to the steps to the sounds he allowed into his mind - all were part of the form, the practice. He shifted, dropping low to the floor, his outstretched leg moving in a steady arc out and around to his side, heel skimming along the ground.
When it reached a point behind him, a slight skew from a true split, he immediately shifted his weight, exhaling. As his leg bent to allow his body to sit poised over his back foot, his front whipped out then in before joining the back and allow him to rise in a single fluid motion. "More fast." The metronome of her hands increased in tempo, and his body did the same. His hands extended forward, arms still bent, feet in a quick, deliberate shuffle. With a sharp spin, he turned, hands moving to his shoulder as he bent forward.
Forward, back, forward again, spin to the side, stop. Shift weight. Up then down, then up again but at an angle. The motions were familiar but they weren't comfortable - they weren't meant to be. Every repetition was one to train his body to react. His muscles tensed and relaxed, as much a dance within his body as without. His thoughts were trained on his own body, on the small strains and shifts in weight and sweat on his brow and back and chest. He took a step forward - too far. "Stop. Again."
Again and again and again. For every mistake Doran reset his body and mind. When the tempo increased, his breathing, his thoughts, his movements, they remained unhurried. Urgency was not part of the dance. It was understanding; action and reaction. He could hear his heart beat in time to Wayan's clapping hands, urging him forward but his mind pressed calmly back. There was no need to rush. It was a dance and the air his partner - nothing more patient nor allowing could he find to take its place. "Again."
She moved with him now, the counter-form performed alongside him. Her movements mirrored his own, a true dance now with a partner of flesh and bone. When his arms swept forward, hers pressed along side his shoulders. When she stepped toward him, he slid down to the ground, twisting and turning. Their momentum was kept in check by one another, rising and falling like waves, though they never crested, never broke. "More fast!" Urgency sought entry the faster they moved, but still Doran held it in check. In came his breath, out moved his foot. Out went his breath, in moved his hand.
The forms had been memorized. The dance was well known. He shifted and twirled, ducked and dove. Wayan did the same. Faster and faster, until he could do nothing but feel the movement in his body. Thought was no longer an option; he moved for the sake of movement. "Again!" Breath came and went. Steps moved him about the floor - his consciousness little more than a drifting leaf in the steady river's rush of his body's practiced flow. He shifted. He turned. He dodged. "Again! More fast!" Shift. Turn. Dodge. "More fast!" Duck. Step. Spin. "More fast!" Hop. Push. Pull. "More!" Down. Out. In. "Again!" Shift, spin, duck, up, out-
He tripped over her foot, tumbling to the ground but body reflexively curling into the fall allowing him to roll out of the spill with little more the a grunt of surprise. "Why Doran fall?"
He rose, blinking, breath metered but rapid still from the pace he'd been keeping. "You changed the-"
"Is not Wayan question, is Doran question. Why Doran fall?" She too breathed heavily, the pair of them wet with sweat.
"I..." Slowly, Doran shook his head. "I stopped anticipating."
"Why?"
Sighing slowly out of his nose, Doran ran a hand through his sodden hair, pushing back the tangled strands out of his face. "Complacency. Fatigue, maybe."
Wayan grinned at that. "Fatigue? Excuse. You know why."
"Because you- because I didn't notice the change. I was... focused on myself and not- not the dance itself." It wasn't the first time, and though Doran had never held much of an ego, he had found that repeated mistakes were a bit of a sore spot for him regardless.
"Hmm." She nodded her agreement. "Rest. Drink. Again later."
He did as he was told, the warm water of his flask welcome at any temperature. Released from the sharp focus he'd forced himself to apply, the grounds once more reminded him that there were many others present. He breathed slow and deep, making his way to the exit, slipping outside into the rain that had settled for the time being to a steady drizzle. He let it wash over him, the shower refreshing but not cold, as he took another liberal swig of water.
Wayan's dance was difficult. He had never imagined himself a physically weak man - though there were plenty who were his superiors in both stamina and strength - but the dance itself was taxing. Every time he was allowed a break to recover, reflect, and consider, he was forever astonished at how Wayan, at whatever age she was, managed not only to keep up but to far surpass him in terms of enduring. He had asked her why their disparity was so great, and she simply replied "practice".
He understood it was, in large, a difference in sheer efficiency. Though his teacher stopped him when his mistakes were noticeable, even she couldn't know when it was he expended more energy than he should. A large part of the art, he'd found, was that though the movements tended to be subtle and redirective they were intentionally exhaustive if done incorrectly - after all, it was meant to wear down foes who, untrained, were expected to follow through the motions as well, guided by the dancer. It was, as Wayan said, a matter of practice, but it didn't change the fact it was difficult to pinpoint, isolate, and improve with any accuracy.
He imagined that was much the point of the practice. To grow to learn about his own body - and the bodies of others. To understand where his limits lay and how to surpass them; to find how far he could push without breaking and how little he might move to get to where he was going. It was slow. It was frustrating. But most of all, it was something he could throw himself into whole-heartedly. Something that allowed him escape from thoughts upon the past, from worries about the future, from considering what it was his present had become.
For that reason alone, he was glad for the struggle, for the strife. There was time for when such things would need to be addressed. He spent much of the early morning and late evening mulling over his and his brother's situation. Even during his breaks, he allowed himself such thoughts, but as he felt a warm hand upon his shoulder, he turned with a ready smile. "Again?"
Wayan laughed, nodding her hoary head. "New steps. More learn." Always there was more to learn. As he followed her back into the shouting and clatter filled training grounds, Doran ran his hands through his hair, forcing the water out between his fingers. He wondered if there was even a limit to the forms she taught him. With each new step or turn or push or pull, they became so vastly different. There was a nuance to every movement, a myriad of reasons for each and every change. To know them all? He doubted he ever would, even if he studied for the rest of their natural lives. Yet, there was a teacher willing to teach and student willing to be tutored. He'd learn whatever he could, and he would do so with ardor.
"Now, follow Wayan."
The rains had yet to let up, coming and going but enough that it was safe to say it had been near constant for the past two trials. The din of the steady beat of the heavy droplets against the roof of the training grounds only added to the general noise. Doran had learned several of Wayan's forms - committed them to memory through repetition. There was always something new to be added, slowly and gradually, and though he had not yet once set foot out on the floor to spar, he was a patient man and one accustomed to noticing incremental differences over yearning for drastic changes in the grand scheme of things. Progress, as Wayan had told him on the day they'd met, was slow but steady. There was no rushing the dance, no shortcuts to be taken, and though Doran was quick to learn, his reflexes could only be trained so fast.
"Good. More fast." His teacher, the weathered, withered woman with bright eyes and knurled fingers steadily clapped a rhythm as she watched him, keen gaze flickering over his movements. The speed of her tempo increased, and so did Doran's steps and turns and dips and dodges. "Stop. Again."
Each mistake he made was addressed. Perfection, however difficult - or perhaps even impossible - to attain, was sought after with a vice-like tenacity by the pair of them. He nodded, resuming his staring position, feet spread in a natural stance, knees bent, hands at his side, and entire body tensed. When the clapping began once more, he moved. From his breathing to where his eyes settled to the steps to the sounds he allowed into his mind - all were part of the form, the practice. He shifted, dropping low to the floor, his outstretched leg moving in a steady arc out and around to his side, heel skimming along the ground.
When it reached a point behind him, a slight skew from a true split, he immediately shifted his weight, exhaling. As his leg bent to allow his body to sit poised over his back foot, his front whipped out then in before joining the back and allow him to rise in a single fluid motion. "More fast." The metronome of her hands increased in tempo, and his body did the same. His hands extended forward, arms still bent, feet in a quick, deliberate shuffle. With a sharp spin, he turned, hands moving to his shoulder as he bent forward.
Forward, back, forward again, spin to the side, stop. Shift weight. Up then down, then up again but at an angle. The motions were familiar but they weren't comfortable - they weren't meant to be. Every repetition was one to train his body to react. His muscles tensed and relaxed, as much a dance within his body as without. His thoughts were trained on his own body, on the small strains and shifts in weight and sweat on his brow and back and chest. He took a step forward - too far. "Stop. Again."
Again and again and again. For every mistake Doran reset his body and mind. When the tempo increased, his breathing, his thoughts, his movements, they remained unhurried. Urgency was not part of the dance. It was understanding; action and reaction. He could hear his heart beat in time to Wayan's clapping hands, urging him forward but his mind pressed calmly back. There was no need to rush. It was a dance and the air his partner - nothing more patient nor allowing could he find to take its place. "Again."
She moved with him now, the counter-form performed alongside him. Her movements mirrored his own, a true dance now with a partner of flesh and bone. When his arms swept forward, hers pressed along side his shoulders. When she stepped toward him, he slid down to the ground, twisting and turning. Their momentum was kept in check by one another, rising and falling like waves, though they never crested, never broke. "More fast!" Urgency sought entry the faster they moved, but still Doran held it in check. In came his breath, out moved his foot. Out went his breath, in moved his hand.
The forms had been memorized. The dance was well known. He shifted and twirled, ducked and dove. Wayan did the same. Faster and faster, until he could do nothing but feel the movement in his body. Thought was no longer an option; he moved for the sake of movement. "Again!" Breath came and went. Steps moved him about the floor - his consciousness little more than a drifting leaf in the steady river's rush of his body's practiced flow. He shifted. He turned. He dodged. "Again! More fast!" Shift. Turn. Dodge. "More fast!" Duck. Step. Spin. "More fast!" Hop. Push. Pull. "More!" Down. Out. In. "Again!" Shift, spin, duck, up, out-
He tripped over her foot, tumbling to the ground but body reflexively curling into the fall allowing him to roll out of the spill with little more the a grunt of surprise. "Why Doran fall?"
He rose, blinking, breath metered but rapid still from the pace he'd been keeping. "You changed the-"
"Is not Wayan question, is Doran question. Why Doran fall?" She too breathed heavily, the pair of them wet with sweat.
"I..." Slowly, Doran shook his head. "I stopped anticipating."
"Why?"
Sighing slowly out of his nose, Doran ran a hand through his sodden hair, pushing back the tangled strands out of his face. "Complacency. Fatigue, maybe."
Wayan grinned at that. "Fatigue? Excuse. You know why."
"Because you- because I didn't notice the change. I was... focused on myself and not- not the dance itself." It wasn't the first time, and though Doran had never held much of an ego, he had found that repeated mistakes were a bit of a sore spot for him regardless.
"Hmm." She nodded her agreement. "Rest. Drink. Again later."
He did as he was told, the warm water of his flask welcome at any temperature. Released from the sharp focus he'd forced himself to apply, the grounds once more reminded him that there were many others present. He breathed slow and deep, making his way to the exit, slipping outside into the rain that had settled for the time being to a steady drizzle. He let it wash over him, the shower refreshing but not cold, as he took another liberal swig of water.
Wayan's dance was difficult. He had never imagined himself a physically weak man - though there were plenty who were his superiors in both stamina and strength - but the dance itself was taxing. Every time he was allowed a break to recover, reflect, and consider, he was forever astonished at how Wayan, at whatever age she was, managed not only to keep up but to far surpass him in terms of enduring. He had asked her why their disparity was so great, and she simply replied "practice".
He understood it was, in large, a difference in sheer efficiency. Though his teacher stopped him when his mistakes were noticeable, even she couldn't know when it was he expended more energy than he should. A large part of the art, he'd found, was that though the movements tended to be subtle and redirective they were intentionally exhaustive if done incorrectly - after all, it was meant to wear down foes who, untrained, were expected to follow through the motions as well, guided by the dancer. It was, as Wayan said, a matter of practice, but it didn't change the fact it was difficult to pinpoint, isolate, and improve with any accuracy.
He imagined that was much the point of the practice. To grow to learn about his own body - and the bodies of others. To understand where his limits lay and how to surpass them; to find how far he could push without breaking and how little he might move to get to where he was going. It was slow. It was frustrating. But most of all, it was something he could throw himself into whole-heartedly. Something that allowed him escape from thoughts upon the past, from worries about the future, from considering what it was his present had become.
For that reason alone, he was glad for the struggle, for the strife. There was time for when such things would need to be addressed. He spent much of the early morning and late evening mulling over his and his brother's situation. Even during his breaks, he allowed himself such thoughts, but as he felt a warm hand upon his shoulder, he turned with a ready smile. "Again?"
Wayan laughed, nodding her hoary head. "New steps. More learn." Always there was more to learn. As he followed her back into the shouting and clatter filled training grounds, Doran ran his hands through his hair, forcing the water out between his fingers. He wondered if there was even a limit to the forms she taught him. With each new step or turn or push or pull, they became so vastly different. There was a nuance to every movement, a myriad of reasons for each and every change. To know them all? He doubted he ever would, even if he studied for the rest of their natural lives. Yet, there was a teacher willing to teach and student willing to be tutored. He'd learn whatever he could, and he would do so with ardor.
"Now, follow Wayan."