"Here—you don't have to worry about me. I know you won't hurt me, but I want to learn."
**** puts up her fists in an approximation of a fighting stance, brow furrowed in complete seriousness. She's tied her long dark hair back in a simple braid, every inch the warrior except for the stiff, expensive fabrics her parents dress her in.
You inspect her stance—her delicate wrists, the lines of her arms. "Er—here," you say, and gingerly push her arms up until her fists stay in front of her eyes. "I'm not going to be as good as a real teacher, but they're always saying to keep your hands up, protect your face. It's got a lot of important parts to it."
"All right," says ****, her face drawn into serious lines. "Well—come at me."
"I'm going to go slow. To start with, anyway. Just block, and then, uh..." You try and remember how your tutors phrased it. "And then return to protecting your core."
You aim a wide outside swing at her right side, and she raises her arm to block—a little too hard, and you both end up shaking out your arms from hitting a nerve wrong, laughing the whole time.
"Let's, um, try that again," you say.
She's good, though—graceful and quick, for a beginner, and faster than you, even when you speed up the exercise. "You're picking it up fast," you say, when you break to catch your breath. "Are you sure your parents wouldn't at least let you learn self-defense?"
She shakes her head, her mouth twisting. "They say it's safer for me to not concern myself with such things. That there's no need for me to, when our noble status is unquestioned and there are others whose role it is to protect."
You shrug. "He's not wrong—"
"*******!"
"—sorry. I just wish... I don't know. That we'd been born under each others' stars." You flop down under the shade of a broad-leaved tree, where **** left the books she'd brought for you. "But there must be a reason for it."
"Hmph," says ****, smoothing her sarong and coming to sit down next to you. "Maybe, but I don't want to protect myself. I want to be able to protect others, like you're learning to do. I want to protect you."
A jolt through your heart like a shock, like the spear of the god of love hitting its target. You take the top book from the stack, and set it on your lap. "See, that's why I've got to work harder. It's irresponsible of me to have to rely on you, like that."
**** punches you in the shoulder. "You know what I mean," she says, and rests her head on your shoulder. You wonder if you do know what she means, but—that tone of voice means accept it, you dummy, and you'd do anything for her. So you smile, lean back against the tree, and crack open the book, for a moment letting yourself forget about what you ought to be doing and who you ought to be.
Notable:
The girl from this memory is the same girl from memory 1, but both she and Shrike are a few years younger.
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softlyfalling) wrote2019-01-24 12:53 am
memory 003
**** puts up her fists in an approximation of a fighting stance, brow furrowed in complete seriousness. She's tied her long dark hair back in a simple braid, every inch the warrior except for the stiff, expensive fabrics her parents dress her in.
You inspect her stance—her delicate wrists, the lines of her arms. "Er—here," you say, and gingerly push her arms up until her fists stay in front of her eyes. "I'm not going to be as good as a real teacher, but they're always saying to keep your hands up, protect your face. It's got a lot of important parts to it."
"All right," says ****, her face drawn into serious lines. "Well—come at me."
"I'm going to go slow. To start with, anyway. Just block, and then, uh..." You try and remember how your tutors phrased it. "And then return to protecting your core."
You aim a wide outside swing at her right side, and she raises her arm to block—a little too hard, and you both end up shaking out your arms from hitting a nerve wrong, laughing the whole time.
"Let's, um, try that again," you say.
She's good, though—graceful and quick, for a beginner, and faster than you, even when you speed up the exercise. "You're picking it up fast," you say, when you break to catch your breath. "Are you sure your parents wouldn't at least let you learn self-defense?"
She shakes her head, her mouth twisting. "They say it's safer for me to not concern myself with such things. That there's no need for me to, when our noble status is unquestioned and there are others whose role it is to protect."
You shrug. "He's not wrong—"
"*******!"
"—sorry. I just wish... I don't know. That we'd been born under each others' stars." You flop down under the shade of a broad-leaved tree, where **** left the books she'd brought for you. "But there must be a reason for it."
"Hmph," says ****, smoothing her sarong and coming to sit down next to you. "Maybe, but I don't want to protect myself. I want to be able to protect others, like you're learning to do. I want to protect you."
A jolt through your heart like a shock, like the spear of the god of love hitting its target. You take the top book from the stack, and set it on your lap. "See, that's why I've got to work harder. It's irresponsible of me to have to rely on you, like that."
**** punches you in the shoulder. "You know what I mean," she says, and rests her head on your shoulder. You wonder if you do know what she means, but—that tone of voice means accept it, you dummy, and you'd do anything for her. So you smile, lean back against the tree, and crack open the book, for a moment letting yourself forget about what you ought to be doing and who you ought to be.
Notable: