Theea
resilient little thing, just like mama raised you
"Maybe she will soon," I say to his comment on the feathers. "I hope she will, now that I'm here."
His corrections come with that easy confidence, the kind that comes from experience instead of ego, and I find myself nodding almost before he finishes speaking. There’s a flash of sheepishness in my expression—he caught exactly what I already knew was off—but the reaction is quick, trained, automatic. I shake out my arms, adjust my stance to what I know is more correct. More difficult, but correct.
“Right,” I say, shifting my weight the way my mother used to make me repeat a hundred times. “Elbow in more. Feet grounded better.”
I glance up at him when he offers the next instruction. Just once. Wherever I like. Like I mean it.
That’s the hard part.
I pause—not because I don’t want to hit him, but because something in me still hesitates. He’s Ronin Taliesin. He’s survived more hardships than I’ve had birthdays. And even though he’s standing there with a relaxed grin and an open stance, some part of me is still whispering, What if you mess it up? What if you look like a kid playing at being strong?
But then I look at him again, and something steadies.
I’m not going to hurt him. Not even close. He can take it—and more importantly, he asked for it. Maybe I will look like a kid playing at being strong, but I hold what Deimos reminded me of close: everyone starts somewhere.
So I move.
Quick and smooth, no warning, the way dad used to say was the point. I shift my weight and throw a tight, focused punch, angled just under the ribs with all the strength I’ve got. Clean, precise, no wasted motion.
His corrections come with that easy confidence, the kind that comes from experience instead of ego, and I find myself nodding almost before he finishes speaking. There’s a flash of sheepishness in my expression—he caught exactly what I already knew was off—but the reaction is quick, trained, automatic. I shake out my arms, adjust my stance to what I know is more correct. More difficult, but correct.
“Right,” I say, shifting my weight the way my mother used to make me repeat a hundred times. “Elbow in more. Feet grounded better.”
I glance up at him when he offers the next instruction. Just once. Wherever I like. Like I mean it.
That’s the hard part.
I pause—not because I don’t want to hit him, but because something in me still hesitates. He’s Ronin Taliesin. He’s survived more hardships than I’ve had birthdays. And even though he’s standing there with a relaxed grin and an open stance, some part of me is still whispering, What if you mess it up? What if you look like a kid playing at being strong?
But then I look at him again, and something steadies.
I’m not going to hurt him. Not even close. He can take it—and more importantly, he asked for it. Maybe I will look like a kid playing at being strong, but I hold what Deimos reminded me of close: everyone starts somewhere.
So I move.
Quick and smooth, no warning, the way dad used to say was the point. I shift my weight and throw a tight, focused punch, angled just under the ribs with all the strength I’ve got. Clean, precise, no wasted motion.
so you got that wildfire in your soul
don't you ever let it go
make it burn so bright that they all know
don't you ever let it go
make it burn so bright that they all know
