Snippet #1584437

Sebastian wasn’t the only one unsure how Nox was going to survive the next few minutes. The gentle pianist himself was rather certain that little ceramic knife and the small woman who wielded it were going to be the literal death of him, and he was made most apprehensive by the possibility. Swallowing his fear, though, he simply nodded, and unsheathed his own knives.

Kali immediately shook her head. “No, just one first.” He blinked with suprprise, but trusted that she knew what she was talking about and complied, sliding the black-handled knife back into the sheath it had come from and leaving it at his back. The blade of the one he’d withdrawn glinted in the morning sunlight, the wave to the steel producing and odd effect. One might have thought it looked innocuous, but Nox did not entertain such delusions. It was a weapon, and it was made to kill someone. Why was he doing this again? He really couldn’t remember.

Thaddeus Nox had never been what one would refer to as ‘macho.’ In fact, he barely qualified for remotely masculine. His benign nature and rather artistic profession had earned him some rather unsavory nicknames, actually, and while he had never let them get to him, he was for some reason remembering them now, as he stood facing a diminutive female who fit society’s expectations for manliness better than he ever could. There was most certainly an irony in that, now wasn’t there? Then again, the same could be said of Leander, what with the devil-may care attitude and the rougher mannerisms.

He didn’t put much stock in things like that, of course, but even so, it was all yet another reminder of his inadequacy come to taunt him when it already could have not been more obvious. Kali stood there, like a viper coiled to strike, fangs dripping toxin that would lay a bear low (metaphorically of course), and he was simply standing there like a dullard because he had absolutely no idea what to do. He’d never needed to hurt anyone in his life, and he’d certainly never desired to. Yet, it seemed that this was what was now demanded of him. The question was: was this a demand that he was even capable of meeting, much less willing to meet?

He realized that the answer had to be yes, else he’d be nothing more than a hindrance to the group as a whole, and he did not desire to have that role in the slightest. So when the Lieutenant challenged him to come at her, he obliged, surging forward with more speed and grace than he would have expected of himself. It seemed this body of his at least knew a little bit about what it was doing, even if his mind and his heart could scarcely comprehend it.

What effectiveness he could muster was, of course, not nearly enough to contend with the experience and reflex of the soldier he was faced with, and she sidestepped his lunge, leaving him with a small cut across his cheekbone for his trouble. “That’s once I’ve killed you,” she informed him bluntly. “The majority of all fights end in less than three seconds. He who strikes quickest is victorious, but that means nothing if I know exactly what you’re planning on doing. Don’t project your movements; move as quickly as you can, but not that far in advance. You have to feel it instead of thinking about it. Again.”

Nox nodded, ignoring the sting on his cheek as blood slowly dribbled down from the wound. That was once he’d died; she was right. He had to do better. This time, when he lunged, he feinted left and switched at the last minute. His blade scraped ceramic; she’d blocked, then delivered a blindingly-fast counter. His bicep now bore a thin line to match his face. “That’s twice dead. Better, though. You’re still thinking too much. Again.”

Did the punishment she was doling out amount to ritualized torture? In some senses, most definitely. Would he benefit from it in the long run? Without a doubt, and he sensed this. So even when he was riddled with small wounds and panting, having managed to land not a single hit on Kali, he did not complain. The world blurred, and all there was was the two of them, the weapon in his hand, and the whiplike crack of her voice as she urged him to try again. And again. Again, again, again, until his little wounds burned and his vision blurred with fatigue. And still, it was again, and again, and again. There was nothing else, no thought of cessation, just constant motion, until he was flowing from one attempt to the next instead of stopping and starting, until her comments were less and less frequent, reduced only to that one word.

Again.