It’s not dying I’m afraid of
She would believe him that he intended it to go this way, but probably for different reasons. She would believe him because he almost always lost, even though he didn’t necessarily have to. He lost because he chose to, because he didn’t like to fight and didn’t like to hurt others. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but he was also bigger and theoretically stronger than her. These should be easy fights for him to win, really, this hand to hand combat of theirs. But she knows her brother, and she knows there’s more going on. He is never the one to pick a fight.
He aims another jab at her ribs, and she uses her free hand to block it, catching the brunt of his punch on her arm as her other hand connects with his face. Gods, she always forgets how much punching hurts until she does it, and her knuckles sting and split from the impact. This is why she prefers weapons, or at the very least elbows. So she aims an elbow to his gut, throwing the weight of her upper body behind it, making it harder to punch her in return as the space between them disappears.
Though there’s no fight back from him, and at his quiet words, she stills. The fight ends as abruptly as it started, and between them hangs the truth. She stands, knowing the snow will seep through his clothes and into his bones far more quickly than her own. She offers him a hand, and sends a burst of her puny little healing magic to the cut she can sense in his mouth, and whatever other small scrapes and bruises she may have left behind.
”Who?’ she finally asks, without judgment, though her voice is quiet and her eyes concerned. That is no easy thing, and she knows that without having ever killed another person. Unless you counted Erebor, which in a way, she had.
He aims another jab at her ribs, and she uses her free hand to block it, catching the brunt of his punch on her arm as her other hand connects with his face. Gods, she always forgets how much punching hurts until she does it, and her knuckles sting and split from the impact. This is why she prefers weapons, or at the very least elbows. So she aims an elbow to his gut, throwing the weight of her upper body behind it, making it harder to punch her in return as the space between them disappears.
Though there’s no fight back from him, and at his quiet words, she stills. The fight ends as abruptly as it started, and between them hangs the truth. She stands, knowing the snow will seep through his clothes and into his bones far more quickly than her own. She offers him a hand, and sends a burst of her puny little healing magic to the cut she can sense in his mouth, and whatever other small scrapes and bruises she may have left behind.
”Who?’ she finally asks, without judgment, though her voice is quiet and her eyes concerned. That is no easy thing, and she knows that without having ever killed another person. Unless you counted Erebor, which in a way, she had.
weaver
it’s dying without ever having lived
