kawa~ inspiration #14
Jan. 8th, 2005 03:46 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
annarti.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
yrae
Title~ Forceful Retirement
Author~ Annarti
Disclaimer~ Guess what? It's mine~ =D
Notes~ kawa~ inspiration #14. After 'may wins the fight that gets her in the Own. Yay!
~ ~ ~
Nimay dropped down to her knees, gripping her sword hilt tightly with her right hand to keep herself from collapsing flat on her stomach. Her breath rasped harshly against her dry throat. She swallowed a few times to try and moisten it, but only succeeded in losing a few gasps of oxygen. Beads of sweat rolled over her skin and dripped from her hair and clothes. She could almost feel her boots squealching even as she knelt, breathless, in the courtyard.
Her eyes stared at the tip of her sword, jammed against the cobblestone to support her weight, but it took her a moment to fully register the red liquid that marred the silver surface. The same reflexes that had driven her through the battle had been the ones to stop her when it ended. There had been no conscious decision.
A strange smile—relieved, hysterical, arrogant—spread over her lips as the full realisation crept into her mind. Her wider senses began to return to her as well. For the duration of the fight, she had seen nothing but the swordsman’s muscles tensing and relaxing under his skin and the flashing of his blade, heard nothing but the shifting of their feet against the sandy cobbles, heavy breathing and the clash of steel.
Now, as a gentle breeze that would have been hot to anyone else brushed against her face, she could hear and see things outside the small, unmarked circle in which the two swordspeople had fought. The roar of the crowd, so completely wiped from her mind moments ago, was almost deafening. People dressed in the dusty red clothes of the palace staff, pale green healers’ robes, dark blue uniforms of the palace officials, and of course the red, blue, purple and orange shirts of the army, jumped and danced with excitement.
Nimay, for her part, was finding it hard to keep on her knees, let alone carry on as the crowd was doing. Finally though, her opponent stretched a hand down to her, which she gripped and let it hoist her to her feet. She sheathed the bloodied sword, noting the darker red patch on the man’s shirt where her blade had bitten into him.
She laid her hands together under her chest, then bowed respectfully to the former rider of the King’s Own.
The man laughed, still gasping for breath himself. “Don’t thank me yet, girl.”
Nimay frowned at him.
“Have you not heard of our tradition?”
She shook her head dumbly.
The swordsman grinned and laughed again, laying a heavy, exhausted hand on her shoulders. “New recruits to the Own treat the one they knocked out to a drink.” He shrugged and shoved his own sword back in its sheath. “At the ‘Thrai, no less.”
Nimay blinked slowly and folded her arms.
The swordsman shook his head ruefully. “Ask any of the boys.”
He slapped Nimay on the shoulders again, just as she noticed the General of the Own and King Mithé crossing the courtyard to them.
“Welcome to the Own,” the swordsman told her. If she didn’t know better, she could have sworn there was a hint of sarcasm in his words.
Author~ Annarti
Disclaimer~ Guess what? It's mine~ =D
Notes~ kawa~ inspiration #14. After 'may wins the fight that gets her in the Own. Yay!
Nimay dropped down to her knees, gripping her sword hilt tightly with her right hand to keep herself from collapsing flat on her stomach. Her breath rasped harshly against her dry throat. She swallowed a few times to try and moisten it, but only succeeded in losing a few gasps of oxygen. Beads of sweat rolled over her skin and dripped from her hair and clothes. She could almost feel her boots squealching even as she knelt, breathless, in the courtyard.
Her eyes stared at the tip of her sword, jammed against the cobblestone to support her weight, but it took her a moment to fully register the red liquid that marred the silver surface. The same reflexes that had driven her through the battle had been the ones to stop her when it ended. There had been no conscious decision.
A strange smile—relieved, hysterical, arrogant—spread over her lips as the full realisation crept into her mind. Her wider senses began to return to her as well. For the duration of the fight, she had seen nothing but the swordsman’s muscles tensing and relaxing under his skin and the flashing of his blade, heard nothing but the shifting of their feet against the sandy cobbles, heavy breathing and the clash of steel.
Now, as a gentle breeze that would have been hot to anyone else brushed against her face, she could hear and see things outside the small, unmarked circle in which the two swordspeople had fought. The roar of the crowd, so completely wiped from her mind moments ago, was almost deafening. People dressed in the dusty red clothes of the palace staff, pale green healers’ robes, dark blue uniforms of the palace officials, and of course the red, blue, purple and orange shirts of the army, jumped and danced with excitement.
Nimay, for her part, was finding it hard to keep on her knees, let alone carry on as the crowd was doing. Finally though, her opponent stretched a hand down to her, which she gripped and let it hoist her to her feet. She sheathed the bloodied sword, noting the darker red patch on the man’s shirt where her blade had bitten into him.
She laid her hands together under her chest, then bowed respectfully to the former rider of the King’s Own.
The man laughed, still gasping for breath himself. “Don’t thank me yet, girl.”
Nimay frowned at him.
“Have you not heard of our tradition?”
She shook her head dumbly.
The swordsman grinned and laughed again, laying a heavy, exhausted hand on her shoulders. “New recruits to the Own treat the one they knocked out to a drink.” He shrugged and shoved his own sword back in its sheath. “At the ‘Thrai, no less.”
Nimay blinked slowly and folded her arms.
The swordsman shook his head ruefully. “Ask any of the boys.”
He slapped Nimay on the shoulders again, just as she noticed the General of the Own and King Mithé crossing the courtyard to them.
“Welcome to the Own,” the swordsman told her. If she didn’t know better, she could have sworn there was a hint of sarcasm in his words.