Ploughshares into Swords into Ploughshares
Sept 27, 2015 13:47:35 GMT -8
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Post by Tennessee Whiskey on Sept 27, 2015 13:47:35 GMT -8
Once, when she was newly embraced, one of her very few teachers with a sense of humor had told Whiskey to do sword drills until she got tired. It's the same drive she feels now, stretching for a sense of exhaustion that's lost to her. Flourish above the head, cut across the body, thrust at the heart, twist the blade away. At least the sun will be on the horizon soon, but the knowledge that she will awake to this same restlessness makes it difficult to find comfort in that.
There's a pile of books upstairs that she'd opened upon arriving at home, but they hadn't been able to hold her attention for long enough to get anything out of them. Dawn isn't close enough yet that she couldn't at the very least clean up after herself, but the only thing her buzzing mind can latch onto is the pattern of the sword's movements in the air. Flourish above the head, cut across the body, thrust at the heart, twist the blade away. It's been a month since she's cut into anything but air, and it seems as though it's going to be longer still.
She supposes, in a a way, she was warned beforehand, but it doesn't help her to feel like any less of an idiot, standing there grinning ear-to-ear and waiting and then, merely standing. Or had she been smiling? It's hard to keep track of what her face is doing, sometimes. The important part is that she knows what her hands are doing--flourish above the head, cut across the body, thrust at the heart, twist the blade away. Not that her hands have been doing much of anything, lately. Not that they are likely to be of much use in the immediate future.
No, it's her words she's supposed to fight with, now. That's the way of things here. That's the weapon her sire has given her, sending her to this place where her name and her blood mean more than the color of her skin and her gender. Not to fight and die for the clan, but to speak for the clan. Which leaves her safer, but her sword arm restless--flourish above the head, cut across the body, thrust at the heart, twist the blade away--with the unfulfilled promise of use.
Flourish above the head, cut across the body, thrust at the heart, twist the blade away.
At least the sun will rise soon.
There's a pile of books upstairs that she'd opened upon arriving at home, but they hadn't been able to hold her attention for long enough to get anything out of them. Dawn isn't close enough yet that she couldn't at the very least clean up after herself, but the only thing her buzzing mind can latch onto is the pattern of the sword's movements in the air. Flourish above the head, cut across the body, thrust at the heart, twist the blade away. It's been a month since she's cut into anything but air, and it seems as though it's going to be longer still.
She supposes, in a a way, she was warned beforehand, but it doesn't help her to feel like any less of an idiot, standing there grinning ear-to-ear and waiting and then, merely standing. Or had she been smiling? It's hard to keep track of what her face is doing, sometimes. The important part is that she knows what her hands are doing--flourish above the head, cut across the body, thrust at the heart, twist the blade away. Not that her hands have been doing much of anything, lately. Not that they are likely to be of much use in the immediate future.
No, it's her words she's supposed to fight with, now. That's the way of things here. That's the weapon her sire has given her, sending her to this place where her name and her blood mean more than the color of her skin and her gender. Not to fight and die for the clan, but to speak for the clan. Which leaves her safer, but her sword arm restless--flourish above the head, cut across the body, thrust at the heart, twist the blade away--with the unfulfilled promise of use.
Flourish above the head, cut across the body, thrust at the heart, twist the blade away.
At least the sun will rise soon.