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edenfallingSummary: The Dea al Mon are known as peerless knife-fighters. But all skills must be trained. Rose and her mother, in a Homestuck/Black Jewels fusion AU. (775 words)
Notes: This fic is set in the same AU as When First We Practice To Deceive, but a bit earlier in the timeline. I'd guess Rose is not quite eleven.
[ETA: The AO3 crosspost is now up!]
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Tooth and Claw
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"Again."
Rose adjusts the knife in her right hand, draws a deep breath, and throws herself into the pattern. She knows the moves in her bones by now -- no need to stop for corrections. The goal has shifted to endurance and speed. The best form in the world does little good without momentum and surprise. The best skill is useless if the body collapses under pressure.
"Good. That was a full second faster. Now again," her mother says.
Rose's fingers feel like burning wires around the hilts of her knives. Air rasps like sandpaper in her lungs. Her clothes are soaked with sweat. She can't feel anything but pain from her knees down: every joint and tendon screams its desire to secede from the rest of her body.
She throws herself into the pattern.
Her mother clicks her tongue. "You're slipping. Again."
And again, and again, like a waking fever dream: there is neither progress nor reprieve. Afternoon bleeds into evening beyond the windows and the moon rises in the east, changing the reflections on the stream and waterfall from gold to silver-white. The house fills with shadows. Rose pulls power from the uncut Opal Jewel hung around her neck to shore up her failing body and begins again. And again, and again, and again, until no amount of will or leaning on the Darkness can override her exhaustion.
Rose stops herself halfway through a mistimed block, wincing at the flaw in her form. "I can't," she says. Her voice is faint and raw, a dying gasp of wind over drought-parched land.
Her mother's face is unreadable as she sets the stopwatch down on the windowsill. "Can't?"
"I lost the pattern," Rose says.
"So you did," her mother says. She draws her own knives, the beautiful, etched-steel pair that mark her as a woman of the Dea al Mon. They shine like moonlight itself, make Rose's plain training blades look like dull imitations for all that they are equally sharp. "Are you dead?" she asks.
Rose shakes her head.
"Then you can. We are the children of forest and moon. We are the wilderness made flesh. Forget your body. Forget your Jewels. Forget your mind." She smiles. "Landens say that nature is red in tooth and claw. And so we are. All Blood rise to the killing edge, but we are the ones who live closest every day. We are the ones who cross the line still sane and calm. Listen to the song in your heart and strike. Again."
"But--"
"Again."
Rose forces her legs and feet to carry her back to the starting point. Her mother sheathes her knives, raises the stopwatch. Rose closes her eyes.
The future spreads out before her in fuzzy, twisting strands, ready to be woven and read. She pushes them aside. The Twisted Kingdom lurks at the edge of her mind, promising respite. She turns away. Her body screams in burning, blood-red pain. Her Birthright Jewel aches with emptiness. She opens her ears, lets the song of her pain become the song of her need become the song of her will, and it has no words but fierce and heedless love. She draws her breath.
The world goes still and calm, like glass about to shatter.
Rose throws herself into the pattern.
She holds the last form for a second, and one more, and one more. Then she falls like a puppet bereft of strings.
Her knives never leave her hands.
Her mother's healing washes over her, the absence of strain so sudden that her nerves fizz and fire on overdrive. Aftershocks of pain crash and jostle through her limbs and mind. Spots and streaks of black blot out her sight as she loses her fight against sleep.
"You did good, baby. You did so good. I'm so sorry, but you need to know how far you can go, how far you will go, when it really matters. My precious baby, my little Black Widow, my sweet thorny Rose. I would break the world for you. You did so good."
Meaningless, Rose thinks, as she falls into darkness. As meaningless and false as every other show of so-called love. She doesn't know why her mother bothers to keep up the façade. She must know by now that Rose discards her remorse and flattery like the extravagant lies they are.
But the lesson -- that mad, red rush of reaching beyond her limits, of burning herself to ash so long as she hits her target -- oh, that she thinks she'll keep.
She has friends to protect.
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Inspired by the 10/19/14![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
15_minute_ficlets word #208: strain
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I did write the first draft of this in fifteen minutes, but it was very late at night and I wasn't happy with the results. So I came back the next day and spent another forty-five minutes on revisions. Oh well, so it goes.
Notes: This fic is set in the same AU as When First We Practice To Deceive, but a bit earlier in the timeline. I'd guess Rose is not quite eleven.
[ETA: The AO3 crosspost is now up!]
---------------------------------------------
Tooth and Claw
---------------------------------------------
"Again."
Rose adjusts the knife in her right hand, draws a deep breath, and throws herself into the pattern. She knows the moves in her bones by now -- no need to stop for corrections. The goal has shifted to endurance and speed. The best form in the world does little good without momentum and surprise. The best skill is useless if the body collapses under pressure.
"Good. That was a full second faster. Now again," her mother says.
Rose's fingers feel like burning wires around the hilts of her knives. Air rasps like sandpaper in her lungs. Her clothes are soaked with sweat. She can't feel anything but pain from her knees down: every joint and tendon screams its desire to secede from the rest of her body.
She throws herself into the pattern.
Her mother clicks her tongue. "You're slipping. Again."
And again, and again, like a waking fever dream: there is neither progress nor reprieve. Afternoon bleeds into evening beyond the windows and the moon rises in the east, changing the reflections on the stream and waterfall from gold to silver-white. The house fills with shadows. Rose pulls power from the uncut Opal Jewel hung around her neck to shore up her failing body and begins again. And again, and again, and again, until no amount of will or leaning on the Darkness can override her exhaustion.
Rose stops herself halfway through a mistimed block, wincing at the flaw in her form. "I can't," she says. Her voice is faint and raw, a dying gasp of wind over drought-parched land.
Her mother's face is unreadable as she sets the stopwatch down on the windowsill. "Can't?"
"I lost the pattern," Rose says.
"So you did," her mother says. She draws her own knives, the beautiful, etched-steel pair that mark her as a woman of the Dea al Mon. They shine like moonlight itself, make Rose's plain training blades look like dull imitations for all that they are equally sharp. "Are you dead?" she asks.
Rose shakes her head.
"Then you can. We are the children of forest and moon. We are the wilderness made flesh. Forget your body. Forget your Jewels. Forget your mind." She smiles. "Landens say that nature is red in tooth and claw. And so we are. All Blood rise to the killing edge, but we are the ones who live closest every day. We are the ones who cross the line still sane and calm. Listen to the song in your heart and strike. Again."
"But--"
"Again."
Rose forces her legs and feet to carry her back to the starting point. Her mother sheathes her knives, raises the stopwatch. Rose closes her eyes.
The future spreads out before her in fuzzy, twisting strands, ready to be woven and read. She pushes them aside. The Twisted Kingdom lurks at the edge of her mind, promising respite. She turns away. Her body screams in burning, blood-red pain. Her Birthright Jewel aches with emptiness. She opens her ears, lets the song of her pain become the song of her need become the song of her will, and it has no words but fierce and heedless love. She draws her breath.
The world goes still and calm, like glass about to shatter.
Rose throws herself into the pattern.
She holds the last form for a second, and one more, and one more. Then she falls like a puppet bereft of strings.
Her knives never leave her hands.
Her mother's healing washes over her, the absence of strain so sudden that her nerves fizz and fire on overdrive. Aftershocks of pain crash and jostle through her limbs and mind. Spots and streaks of black blot out her sight as she loses her fight against sleep.
"You did good, baby. You did so good. I'm so sorry, but you need to know how far you can go, how far you will go, when it really matters. My precious baby, my little Black Widow, my sweet thorny Rose. I would break the world for you. You did so good."
Meaningless, Rose thinks, as she falls into darkness. As meaningless and false as every other show of so-called love. She doesn't know why her mother bothers to keep up the façade. She must know by now that Rose discards her remorse and flattery like the extravagant lies they are.
But the lesson -- that mad, red rush of reaching beyond her limits, of burning herself to ash so long as she hits her target -- oh, that she thinks she'll keep.
She has friends to protect.
---------------------------------------------
Inspired by the 10/19/14
15_minute_ficlets word #208: strain---------------------------------------------
I did write the first draft of this in fifteen minutes, but it was very late at night and I wasn't happy with the results. So I came back the next day and spent another forty-five minutes on revisions. Oh well, so it goes.
