Each throw was worse and worse, my skills a downward spiral that reflected my state of mind. Furfur was pacing with increasing unease, ready for a brawl or a hunt, as I grew more agitated. We fed off each other’s energy, and as the winter air grew colder around us we only felt hotter and hotter, twin stars alight with rage and restlessness.
Another knife clattered to the ground.
And then I wasn’t alone. Or at least, then I realized I wasn’t alone.
I turned to face the wise stranger. I never paid much attention to others, but if I had, I probably would have recognized the mare. She was certainly... different. It wasn’t her accessories or scars or even her eyes-- it was the caged tension in her body. Something about her was like a snake coiled and itching for something to strike. Like my mother. Too much war for one body. And her voice was a thick crimson; smooth as rose petals.
But that wasn’t here or there or anywhere. I nodded, terse, and turned back to the target. Breathed in, out, in again--
1-2-3-4--
Hold- 1-2-3-4--
Exhale- 1-2-3-4-5-6--
hold--1-2-3-4--
release--
release.
The knife, it sang in the air. It sounded like prayer should, done right. It hit.
I bit my lip to keep from smiling. Such was my pleasure- a secret thing, strangled or muffled or bitten off whenever I had the opportunity. So it could not be taken from me. So it could not leave. “Hmm.” I murmured, careful to be placid. Harboring depths that must not be seen. “It worked.” I looked at the stranger again. I wanted to know her name. I wanted to braid and unbraid her hair the way I did sister’s, once, over and over, silent messages coded in each gesture.
But she was not my sister, and I was not so lonely to go about replacing the irreplaceable-- not yet at least. Not yet. “I’m Aspara,” I offered quietly, like a handshake. “Who taught you?” And then I offered her one of the practice daggers, to do with what she wished. The target stood there like an open invitation.
@
