asterion*
”I ought to learn to use those, too,” he answers her, though nothing in him can picture it. No matter what weapon, he can’t imagine cutting a hole in anything; is that, then, the burden that made a unicorn? To be born with such a killing-thing upon their brow? But he reminds himself that some violence is done in defense, and he can never again give his people a murmured word of grief when he could have saved them with a sword.
It is not a time for dreamers.
When she speaks again he flahes her a grin, wry and boyish and gone again in the same breath. “I had figured that much.”
The spear feels alien in his grip, cool silver, as if aware of the ignorance of the man who holds it. As he makes his way toward her, his steps casual despite the eager increase of his heartbeat, he tests the weight of it: tilts it horizontal and upright, sweeps it in a hesitant feint and jab. Already he cannot imagine it piercing flesh, drinking blood; he ignores the want to set it down, to lift a dagger instead or nothing at all. Asterion has scars enough on his hide and on his heart - is he so eager for more?
He faces her now with several lengths between them, the shadow of the spear reaching toward her as he works to keep it balanced in his grip. When he glances up at her, his gaze is eager and nervous both. “If it was Marisol and her spear you were fighting - how would you win?”
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