I growled once, too late, in frustration. The glove fabric folded against the skin of my palm. I gripped the hilt of the foil, flexing my fingers hard against its surface. I parried, prepared to thrust, felt a jab to the ribs. The grace of an athlete became the grace of a predatory creature, the friend I knew disappearing behind a veneer of mad particulars: the shudder of a foot as it stepped, the rise of his chest too quick, the set of his shoulders up. Choking on breath, I caught a glimpse of eyeshine through the convex mesh of Hamlet’s mask. The fencing master watched impassively, his limited praise reserved only for the prince who kept advancing as though time were slowing to a point that expanded and filled the room like an invisible balloon, forcing air from my lungs. Perhaps I could make him follow and either get him out of bounds or make him look down, giving me a moment to strike. If he wanted to create a rift between us, canceling twenty years of camaraderie, I could at least respond in kind. He might be the prince, but this was the only activity at which I exceled. I licked salt from my lips and retreated, adjusting my path along the piste to throw him off balance. I’d won twice before now, he the time before, and so on.

Hamlet lunged, a touch of aggression this time. The room smelled of sour dust, the clatter and squeak of boots over smooth floor the only sound. Sweat streamed down my back under the suit and slicked my gloved hand.

Across from me, Hamlet was a featureless monster clad in white.

Laertes by Carly Stevens