The Verbal Riposte: A Personal Recounting of Words as Steel 【ESSAY】【MISC】

The Verbal Riposte: A Personal Recounting of Words as Steel

“Then just leave!” The shout echoed through my veins as my heart thumped at its place where I had been stabbed. A straight thrust from Alber, the Fool’s Guard. I had fallen for the exact trick the position was made for. Of course, with one second on the clock left and me a point or two down, I had forgotten. Alber is one of my favorite guards in longsword: it is an invitation to the opposition, a friendly gesture, if you will; yet it is physically such a position in which a strike could come out with unrelenting speed. The blade pointed towards the ground like a hand held out, but the wrists lay turned inward to propel the sword with strong biceps if the opponent should reach to shake. It’s sneaky, it’s clever, but it is not dirty. It suggests exactly what the opposition might do and gives time to plan and react.

But lately, whenever I have failed to counter a thrust from Alber, or any sort of strike for that matter, I only feel guilt. Guilt isn’t something I had typically faced in HEMA (the very fun abbreviation for Historical European Martial Arts (the very not fun way to tell people my sport is actual history-based sword fighting.)). Being a martial art, mutual respect in the fight is a big part of the culture. You compliment someone when they pull a good hit, you hug it out when you win. Mutual respect is beyond a two-way street, however. It also reflects back onto yourself. I typically pride myself in the rhythmic journey of a duel, even if I lose.

But Alber kept getting to me. Ever since those words were pressed into my ears, my sense of self-respect has been lost. “You said you would leave if we kept being this way, so then just leave!” It was then I had really realized that, without even knowing it, my HEMA instructors had been trying to teach me how to handle a fight with my tongue even more than a sword. I had been lured in with Alber and proven the true Fool amongst an opponent I’d thought loved me. I now knew that a fight of wit was no different than one of steel.

This fight was one that had been going on for longer than I anticipated. As it turns out, when I love something like anyone else, be it an entire paycheck’s worth of cold steel or a friend who had given me my very name, it becomes crucially hard for me to let go. I was seventeen when I experienced the worst day of my life, though I know that date tends to change as one experiences more falls. I had in the same moment lost my closest companion and our entire “shenanigang” of buddies: my found family, I suppose. After a while of tense non-communication—much scoping out of each other’s next move—I decided to open the conversation with something easy. A simple oberhau would do the trick! It’s a nice and easy cut, not super aggressive, and sets up a firm defense for any counterattack.

“Is there a reason we haven’t been talking? I feel like you’re avoiding me.”

As expected, he parried my cut, leaving us in what is called a bind. But these moments of thinking, rethinking, and rewording lasted mere milliseconds in a tournament duel, no matter how long we had been practicing them. In pop culture, and perhaps with someone of less skill, duelists will stay in a bind and just shove each other, growling at each other until someone loses strength. Someone mature obviously would not encounter this issue, as I was aware. With longswords crossed for but a blink of an eye, my companion responded with the same energy: sliding down my blade in a simple riposte.

“Well… I have some things I want to talk to you about.”

I panicked. The riposte itself I was expecting, but it was his use of the indirect object that distracted me: some sort of feint with his footwork to throw me off. “To you,” “To you,” “To you,”. There is a rapidly accelerating piece of steel moving “to you,” that’s what. Instinct briefly overtook and I was on the defensive. My muscles told me to fall into a hanging parry. I did. I could always rely on it to cover most of my weak spots. Looking back, I should have done a twerhau. That kind of cut was designed specifically to counter ripostes, and it was barely a different motion from a hanging parry. I could have said “I do too. I know you’ve been ghosting me”. But instead, I had let my adversary take the initiative, or the Vor, as we call it. My response was weak.

“What?”

Maybe he never consciously saw my fear, but he capitalized on it anyway. He had the perfect chance for the killing blow, and he took it. He had to win, for both our sakes. That’s what he said after it all, anyway. If he wanted to bring the tone back to Indes, a neutral ground, he could have just done another oberhau or unterhau, but his motives were clear. He knew me. He knew his offense would withhold me from retorting. It was he who threw the twerhau, pressing the offensive, securing the Vor. I let him do it, I gave that momentum to him in my parry. It was an awkward spot for me to even defend, my top left quadrant, my left brain, being the target. I thought I had absolutely no chance to riposte in my desperate defense against his next words.

“I can’t deal with your needs anymore. I’ve been hanging out with the others without you because you’re draining me. They know too. It’s all I can do without seeing you cry.”

I could have morphed my hanging parry into the Ochs guard, covering my head and poising for a thrust, but I could not bring myself to. I could not deliver the killing blow. It was immediately clear to me that this was a match I could not allow myself to win. I simply loved too hard. Was it true? Had I really hurt my dear friend in such a way? Instead of pressing the advantage, I just backed off, out of immediate range of his cut. I’d returned us to Indes, neutralizing the initiative. No Vor, no Nach.

“I never meant anything! I would never try to hurt you, and yet you know you’re hurting me?”

He could tell our duel was stressing me out. He had the respect of a fencer and thus held himself back. No fighter wants to get too aggressive. When words and cuts and thrusts are just falling out in sequence, we forget about our own safety even if it seems like offense may be the ultimate shield. So, he held his action and lowered his longsword a bit.

“I do feel guilty for ghosting you like this, but unless something changes, it is the only way I could take care of myself. Either I feel the guilt in quiet or do so with the sobs I know I caused. I cannot bear it anymore.”

That was it. That was my opening. It had to end soon, but I could win without hurting him. Besides, his sword told me he was guilty. I could take the Vor. I could show him why it hurt me. Nothing too strong though. Quick and stunning, but something we could laugh about later. A thrust from Pflug, the Plow Guard. A plow to replant old seeds and start again. I had to get him to realize that we were both wrong, and we could shake on it. I went for the thrust, putting all I needed into it.

“If you keep ghosting me like this, I’ll just leave! I’ll stop crying if you can just respect me too! We can give each other another shot. Everyone can. Just let me prove that I can do better. It’ll be the last shot I ask for!”

But my sword’s point made no contact. The end of my blade rested upon the crossguard of his own, as the tip of his sword pressed deep into the padded coat over my chest. Alber. It was Alber! Through the mesh of our masks, I saw his eyes were not even looking at his target. It was a blind shot. He was hoping he would hit without even acknowledging his aim, and he did.

“…Then just leave. You said if we kept doing this… you’d just leave. So, leave. I’m tired anyway.”

He won. He got to continue in the tournament, and I was out. It was over. Before I even realized, I was being brought out of the dueling circle. My friends, the ones I had left, were patting me on the back. I had made it far. I had worked hard, and they didn’t care that I lost. They were just proud that I finished. But… he didn’t shout that phrase like I’d remembered. The shout I heard whenever I dueled since then could not have been his voice. He just wanted to move on, and the voice I was hearing must have become my own. Before, I had not even considered that he might not be angry. He only wanted to be free.

Of course! It makes so much sense now. A fencer doesn’t win fights to stop their opponent’s progression: they fight to climb their own ladder. Why had I turned away from my own? Did I believe that was really why we fought? That he was using me as a steppingstone? Maybe I just need to follow his example. That’s etiquette, after all; and it’s about time I pick up my own sword again anyway. I’ve got to get ready for the next tournament, don’t I?