I clutched my life and wished it kept
Marcus hesitated for a moment when she asked if he wanted the first move. His hands flexed at his sides, suddenly aware of how empty they were. He shot a quick glance over to the racks of weapons off the side of the ring.
“Hold on,” he muttered, half to himself, and trotted over to the line of practice weapons stacked against the stone. Spears, staves, blunted blades—all worn from years of drills. His fingers hovered over the hafts, indecisive, before settling on a spear. The wood was nicked and the iron head dulled, but the weight felt solid when he lifted it. Familiar, even.
It reminded him of his father’s—longer, heavier, and alive with fire when wielded. That weapon had always seemed impossibly large when Marcus was younger, spitting arcs of flame into the sky during hunts and battles. This practice spear was nothing like that, stripped of power and glory, but Marcus held it a little straighter all the same. If nothing else, it was a shape he recognized. It was the only type of weapon he had even held, as he considered his bow a tool more than a weapon.
Turning back toward Theea and closing the distance once more, he gave a short nod, planting the butt of the spear into the packed snow to steady himself. He stepped forward, boots crunching and sliding slightly on the slick surface. For a second he wavered, then let the spear’s length guide him into motion. He swept low first, the haft dragging just above the ground to test her footing, then angled the tip up in a quick jab toward her side. His motions were quick and unpracticed, rough and untrained.
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My dearest love, I'm not done yet
infinite inspiration and endless thanks to odd and sky
