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Strong.
“You know I’m going to beat you tonight, right?” I warned him through my shaking inhales, and he shrugged. I was worked up enough that I could probably beat Batian, not that I could fight Batian. If my brother knew I did any of this, it would not end well.
Sometimes I thought he bought in a little too much to Mother’s tirade about my sickly little body.
The Boy swung both swords around in what I was sure he thought was an ominous way before handing me mine, his body language all sass and taunt. I couldn’t see an inch of him, but I sure could read him.
“You really think you have a chance?” I quipped. He swung the wooden sword impressively in answer, swooping it around him like it was a ribbon in the small space. The wooden tip would have hit the door and chaise if he swung too wide. “Naw, all your fancy training will get you nowhere.”
He swung again, spinning the thing like he was about to break into a dance, and then, without warning, he swung forward, the sleek edge of his wooden blade aimed right for my shoulder.
He never would have let it make contact, but it didn’t matter, I blocked him long before that anyway. I stepped back, skirts hitting the side table as the edge of my sword hit against his with a resounding thwack of wood against wood. The gruffest sound of what could have been a laugh escaped his shroud, and I grinned.
“Impressed?” I gave him a wink and stepped closer to him, making sure to keep enough space between me and the side wall that I could move.
He should be impressed; I don’t think I had ever blocked him so well. So, of course he only grunted and shook his head no. “Bastard.”
This time, I was the one to swing my sword. I stepped forward, letting the motion build up momentum before I swung. He blocked it easily, already moving toward the next possible hit.
Swipe and thwack. Thwack! Thwack!
The sounds of our swords hitting again and again mixed with our heavy breathing, the motions we had practiced for years working all of that rage and fury right out of me.
Around. Over top. I pushed against the side table, sending books flying and launching myself forward. Thwack!
Side swipe and lunge, keeping away from the chaise even as he jumped on it. Dodge, parry. Thwack!
Again and again, we fought, until sweat pooled down my back and between my breasts. Until it dripped down the side of my face and over my nose. But I kept moving, kept hitting and breathing until everything boiling through me hissed out in steam and rage. I hit and grunted and swiped at all of it. The failures I couldn’t avoid. The life I wish I had. The magic I was supposed to have.
Even this fight would have been so much different if I was what my mother wanted me to be.
“You know, if I had fíra, I’d light this on fire and send it right at you,” I said as he dodged a low swing, pointing at himself before pantomiming the motion we saw so often in the training pits as he sent an imaginary ball of fire right at me.
I dodged it, laughing maniacally as he huffed and clicked.
“Nice try. Maybe I’ll use vio instead,” I moved my hands around, lifting my free hand up as though I was calling rocks and stones from the floor.
The Boy made a sound like a soft scream that was more of a groan and pretended to dodge my invisible weapons, slashing at them all as I laughed with a sound that was far too close to Mother's.
Fake magic or not, I’ll never make that sound again.
The sound was silenced as the Boy spun, sending yet another fireball my way. I wasn’t fast enough for that one and I let the invisible fire hit me right in my gut. I swear I felt the heat prickle over me, that same feeling from before burning over my skin.
Okay, I might be getting too into this.
With all of the overdramatic skill I possessed, I fell to my knees, my sword falling by my side with a clatter.
“No! How could you! I had so much life! So much vision!” I clutched at the imaginary wound, holding my free hand out to the Boy, who held his hands over his head in mock panic before rushing to my side and dropping to his knees, catching me as I fell back.
My supposedly broken body was draped over his lap, his hand cupping my neck as I made what I assumed were dying sounds and he wildly pantomimed in what was clearly distress.
“You have ended me!” I exaggerated everything, gasping and breathing and reaching toward the sky. “This life is not meant for me, nor I for this life. Oh! Goddess! Take me to your gardens of the afterlife!”
I reached for the sky in what I was sure was the last moment of a very emotional death. The Boy’s pantomiming shifted as I choked out a very dramatic last breath and sagged in his arms. He clutched me against him, rocking and making noises that could have been sobs, until he pulled me back, one hand still cradling my neck as the other lifted to my face.
I stared into the nothing of supposed death, waiting for the right moment to double-cross him. Instead I froze.
His hand was soft as it pressed against my cheek, the cold leather of his glove somehow warm as he pressed his palm against my jaw, his thumb against my cheek. His touch was featherlight as his thumb moved over my skin, both of us frozen as my once dead eyes shifted, looking toward the shroud where his face was hidden.
