TBTT10. Showing what she's capable of

[moonshadows]

She knows when he has returned. There is nothing she can point to, no thread of magic or overheard conversation from the guards that tell her yes, he is back. To all senses, the day dawns the same as the last six or seven have, and will continue the same as the days before: the isolation she has grown used to, broken by Joshua's hour-long "meetings". She knows differently. Restlessness fills her. She checks and double-checks the shirt, the needle, the thread. Everything is ready for his return, for her demonstration of skill. Although she has never paid particular attention to what she's wearing when he visits, she frets about it now and changes clothes half a dozen times until she winds up in teal stretch pants with flared legs and a slightly-loose sleeveless purple top. Her hair is brushed and tied back with a teal scrunchie.

Excitement bubbles up inside her, anticipation making her unable to focus on anything for very long. She straightens her suite in bursts of activity and sips at electricity to ensure that she doesn't run out of energy mid-way through her demonstration. Finally, there is nothing left to prepare and she paces back and forth through the main room, waiting.

When the door opens, she is prepared to drop into a kneeling position, but it is Joshua, looking fearful and holding "her" amulet.

"By the power of the amulet which commands you," he says shakily, eyes flickering to the heavily-armed guards on either side of him, "and in the name of the Lord you serve, you are commanded to accompany me, for he has summoned you."

You will maintain the charade that this holds control over you. She remembers his command, and stands straighter in a show of obedience. "I hear and obey the words of my Lord."

Joshua nods and turns around, leading the way. The guards fall into step on either side, wary, and she keeps her eyes on the back of Joshua's head rather than looking around to see where they're going. Joshua stops before a reinforced double door flanked by no less than six armed guards, who move to block him and force him to the left while at the same time opening the right door and motioning her inside. The doors open outwards and the guard only opens it a crack, so it is not until the door closes behind her that she is able to see what kind of room it is.

It must have been a gym, at some point. The vaulted ceiling is easily fifty feet high, with abandoned fixtures of unknown purpose and bright lighting that casts the corners into deep shadow. The stone of the walls has been half covered with mirrors and mats, and rubber paneling to a height of ten feet on the other half. The same rubber paneling covers every inch of the floor, muffling any sound and providing traction without potentially tripping anyone.

The room is empty, save for some pieces of metal in the center. She steps carefully over to them, nerves taut, and has just recognized the shapes as being similar to the dual blades wielded by some species of employed by the Legion, when-

"Pick up the blades."

The growled command echoes through the room, giving no hint as to where it originated. Hesitantly, she obeys. They are lighter than she expected, which is good because she's never fought with this type of weapon before and they are nearly as tall as she is. No sooner does she have them in hand than she hears the sound of wings, and there is an impact behind her. She whirls, suddenly terrified, the weight of the blades making her awkward, and freezes.

He stands before her as he truly is, the power at his command crackling about him, bearing blades even longer than the ones she has. Where hers appear to be cheaply made, if functional, his are recognizable - and legendary. The Warglaives of Azzinoth, lost thousands of years ago when the Legion failed to conquer her mother's homeworld. They glow and crackle with suppressed energy, but she knows the stories of what those blades have done.

"Attack me."

The words leave no room for argument, and his mind is closed - but his chaotic feelings batter her mental defenses, overwhelming her briefly. She is beyond terrified, and unable to think past the moment. She needs to attack him. It is imperative - no, vital to everything that she strike at him, now, before all is lost. Her own feelings struggle weakly, the desire to not harm him and the fear that her weakness makes her unworthy, but they are trampled beneath his insistent need for her to come at him with everything she has. One breath, two, and as she stands frozen with fear the need changes to despair that she will not do what he needs her to do: try to kill him with the blades.

"Attack me, or I will kill you here and now." His despair howls at her, tears away her defenses, and then it is her despair that rips through her, driving everything from her mind but the need to ease that deep, searing pain. She would do anything, anything to make it better and erase his anguish.

In that moment, something shifts inside her. The fear no longer controls her, the despair no longer drowns her, and she is suddenly aware of the fragile hope buried beneath the other emotions. A third breath, and her mind leaps into action. She doesn't know how to use these heavy blades, but he does. The knowledge drifts past the barriers of his mind in motes and sparks, and she gathers those. He is expecting a strike here, which he will block like this.

Knowledge births movement; the blade in her right hand is thrusts towards where his will move to intercept, and the shock of impact nearly tears it from her clawed fingers. When did she drop her illusions? Does it matter? He's moving to strike her now, desperately afraid that she will not block like this, and she takes that knowledge and hauls the left blade barely into position. Beneath the ring of metal on metal, there is a tiny surge of satisfaction, a fragile flare of hope. She latches onto that - if she can strike enough, block enough, the fear will fade and everything will be okay.

All attempts at rational thought are abandoned in favor of listening for those motes of knowledge, the fragments of expectation. This would not work if he were Nathrezim-trained, but he is not and she is able to glean enough to predict where he expects her to strike or block - barely. The blades are still awkward in her hands, her motions jerky and sloppy.

Shift weight. Turn. He expects a strike there. Shock of impact that destroys a grain of despair. Listen for the motes beneath the fear. He will strike here and expects a block like this. Shock of impact, listen for the motes.

How many times have their blades met? How long as this gone on? Her breath burns in her lungs, her arms and legs ache, but she ignores it. Nothing matters but the growing nodule of hope and the waning tide of fear. No longer does he expect a single strike; now she has a choice of moves he thinks she may make. The knowledge she has absorbed lends her false expertise with the cumbersome weapons; she does not truly know how to use them, her muscles are not familiar with the motions he expects her to make. In a strange way, he is leading her in a martial dance and her continued strikes have begun to bring a sort of relaxation to him. This is something he is so intimately familiar with that the motions are as easy as breathing, and with each strike he is pleased with her.

Thrust. Whirl. Block. Shift.

The motions are becoming easier, now - or is it his familiarity that she is borrowing? She is a vessel for his will, dancing to the song of war his mind sings. The discordant note of her physical discomfort is repressed, until she moves to block his strike and instead, the walls tremble and the floor leaps up at her and there is nothing but darkness.