And then it is only the fight. The conversation becomes nothing but a yes, and the questions die on her tongue as his sword hilt slams into her fist. Grunting, fingers instinctively flexing open, the knife falls to the ground. Weaver grows reckless, a thing that often loses but sometimes wins her the fight. She is outmatched in skill, strength, speed, stamina, and basically everything else that matters, but she is not outmatched in a reckless sort of fury.
She remembers Erebor’s constant chiding as they fought. ”You forget what you have learned,” he would tell her, which was both true and not truth. She did not forget but she would fight like she had. Something feral took over, instinctual. Those who could do both - keep proper techniques and still let instinct reign - as her brother could, always used it to their advantage. Those who only knew the technique though, well, she found that they did not know how to handle her when she forgot her manners.
She does not doubt that Deimos knows both, as her brother had. Fighting him reminds her so much of the brother she will never see again that it hurts, that old wound aching with memory.
Still, Weaver grabs for another knife, the seemingly endless array of their handles glimmering along her belt. She spins, attempting to whip around him to his back, to simply play dirty, to drive the knife point right below his ribs. In a real battle she would try to cut up and under, to shred the insides of him. It is not fair play, but then again, life has never been very fair.
She remembers Erebor’s constant chiding as they fought. ”You forget what you have learned,” he would tell her, which was both true and not truth. She did not forget but she would fight like she had. Something feral took over, instinctual. Those who could do both - keep proper techniques and still let instinct reign - as her brother could, always used it to their advantage. Those who only knew the technique though, well, she found that they did not know how to handle her when she forgot her manners.
She does not doubt that Deimos knows both, as her brother had. Fighting him reminds her so much of the brother she will never see again that it hurts, that old wound aching with memory.
Still, Weaver grabs for another knife, the seemingly endless array of their handles glimmering along her belt. She spins, attempting to whip around him to his back, to simply play dirty, to drive the knife point right below his ribs. In a real battle she would try to cut up and under, to shred the insides of him. It is not fair play, but then again, life has never been very fair.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Quote by Charles Dickens
