Your mother always rises before you do, somehow, and goes to bed later, and yet somehow you have never been able to best her in the sword, even when she’s clearly holding back for your training. She hardly has the hours to train to the extent that you do, these days, with her duties, but still, she barely has to break a sweat to outpace you.
She has in fact, just knocked you flat on your ass (again; you’re going to be one large bruise tomorrow), and snaps: “On your feet! The enemy will not grant you a moment’s reprieve, whether it’s on the battlefield or in that viper’s nest of the Hall of Noble Voices. I have not built this family up from nothing for you to lose it, K̴̢͍͍̭̹̬̖͕̳̫̦̀é̘̝̫͔̗͘͠ș̷̶̢̹̜̜̝̳̠͖̞͚͔̗̮̖t̴̷͙͓͇̭͉͚̪̦̲̗͖͖͔̥͍͘r͏͔̣͉͇̤̦̣̗̜͈̲̮̝͙̰̥̗̯ę̷̢̪̖͕͓̭͈̙̱̕l҉̷̬̬̫̹̩̦͔̦͟! Did you think that today was a day for you to rest?”
You pull yourself to your feet with—effort. It needs a lot of effort, because you’re tired and aching and for fuck’s sake, she’s already coming in swinging, and this time you block, still on one knee, training sword above your head before rolling to the side before her weapon comes down again onto the stones with a thwack.
She doesn’t praise you; you’re only doing the minimum expected, after all. But you get more or less steady to your feet, even though your head feels a little like it’s ringing. Maybe she’s still shouting at you, but it sort of passes over you, tinny and distant, and you can feel yourself move but it’s… strange, you feel heavy and your head feels cloudy, even though you’re pretty sure you’re not slowing down, and then—
Your mother steps neatly past you to your flank, and slams her wooden sword down across your back, and you drop to the flagstones like a sack of potatoes, your own sword dropping from your nerveless fingers.
Today you are sixteen years old.
Notable
Mahogany-haired, tan-skinned Shrike, clearly in her mid-teens.
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softlyfalling) wrote2019-01-24 12:53 am
memory 029
She has in fact, just knocked you flat on your ass (again; you’re going to be one large bruise tomorrow), and snaps: “On your feet! The enemy will not grant you a moment’s reprieve, whether it’s on the battlefield or in that viper’s nest of the Hall of Noble Voices. I have not built this family up from nothing for you to lose it, K̴̢͍͍̭̹̬̖͕̳̫̦̀é̘̝̫͔̗͘͠ș̷̶̢̹̜̜̝̳̠͖̞͚͔̗̮̖t̴̷͙͓͇̭͉͚̪̦̲̗͖͖͔̥͍͘r͏͔̣͉͇̤̦̣̗̜͈̲̮̝͙̰̥̗̯ę̷̢̪̖͕͓̭͈̙̱̕l҉̷̬̬̫̹̩̦͔̦͟! Did you think that today was a day for you to rest?”
You pull yourself to your feet with—effort. It needs a lot of effort, because you’re tired and aching and for fuck’s sake, she’s already coming in swinging, and this time you block, still on one knee, training sword above your head before rolling to the side before her weapon comes down again onto the stones with a thwack.
She doesn’t praise you; you’re only doing the minimum expected, after all. But you get more or less steady to your feet, even though your head feels a little like it’s ringing. Maybe she’s still shouting at you, but it sort of passes over you, tinny and distant, and you can feel yourself move but it’s… strange, you feel heavy and your head feels cloudy, even though you’re pretty sure you’re not slowing down, and then—
Your mother steps neatly past you to your flank, and slams her wooden sword down across your back, and you drop to the flagstones like a sack of potatoes, your own sword dropping from your nerveless fingers.
Today you are sixteen years old.
Notable