Rebirth [Fanfic]
Posted: January 21st, 2016, 5:47 am
Moisture clung to screaming limbs as one motion ended and another began without pause.
There was peace, but it was not a quiet one. It was turbulent and angry; a pit of restless energy accumulated over a lifetime. Another stroke, another challenge met and vanquished.
In between the breaths the Void existed and in each stroke the drumbeat of battle thumped out an unheard rhythm for the body to dance to. Nothing and everything existed beyond the senses. Life and death was in the thrust, fueling boiling blood that ran hot in every fiber. Val’s hair got his face again, but there was no stopping—he couldn’t.
Twisting sharply invited a shooting pain from where the ankle bent awkwardly, but the Fury demanded retribution for every hurt. Swinging in spite of the arms that felt like lead something deep had come unhinged.
How long? It didn’t matter. The body said to keep fighting.
There was no form—no mind, yet there was beauty in it. Liberty sang as the shackling burdens of restraint fell away. No thoughts, no worries, and no pain. Life was at the edge of the wooden blade clenched between gnarled fingers. Had there always been calluses on the knuckles? Don’t think. Don’t stop. Keep fighting.
Inspiration took him to the sky, spine bending awkwardly chasing after the feverish passion coloring the world. Steps, leaps, stumbles—the only rules were between the ring of chalk separating from the rest of the world. The Oneness picked out the scent of lilac on the wind; the Novices were watching again. Don’t think. Listen.
Val was listening. He heard his tortured lungs languishing after an eternity without a full swig of sweet air. He heard the scratch of his tattered boots, the heel nearly fallen off, as it slid across the sandy ground. All of it he could hear, but there was something more.
Right. Left. The guard came up to protect against another blow. Was it fast enough? Don’t think. Don’t stop. Keep fighting.
There were sounds beyond the inner chaos. Voices, shouts—the drone of the Warder Yards in full animation like a great living thing with the teeming Drin’far’ji and Ji’alantin as blood in its sandy veins. He was there too. A speck in the great wheel of fate. Defiantly a shout split the calm of the Void again.
Riposte, parry, feint, thrust. Fodhr’s grunt when they last fought. Valadin had been on the defensive the entire time. Don’t think. Don’t stop. Keep fighting. Sparks flew where there swords met; at the time it had been a good idea to fight with actual steel. A deep dark crescent under the ribs was sufficient argument for the contrary.
Heron Wading in the Rushes came into effortless existence. The body embraced the motion well, the wooden edge cutting true with a snap through the crisp afternoon air. Dots of light danced whenever Val moved; beads of sweat. How long? No. Don’t think.
Suddenly the edge of the ring was there. His heel nearly landed on it, but the sword knew the way. Another advance then high guard and he was back at the center. Weapon and man becoming one. The inner song it grew. It was melancholy at times and robust during others, but it made the heart soar to let bleed into the soul.
Strong base to anchor balance, but never stay motionless. To slow was to die. The Oneness guided a misstep, turning it into Ribbon Dances on the Breeze, but as abruptly as there was form it was gone. Saidin was there. Roaring like the great falls east of Tower. On quiet evenings the distant thunder held a melody for the slumbering warrior in the heart. Don’t stop. Don’t think. Keep moving.
All swiftness guarded to the right and then the left. A small hop backwards to gain space, but to defeat the self was not to be faster. It was to be early. Omniscient.
Gradually the pounding of the blood slowed and the tempo of the fury tapered. When it stopped and Valadin stood alone in the sparring ring, breathless and clothes soaked entirely through, the sun had dipped low becoming little more than an angry line of red in the distance.
No one else watched. No one stood in awe. No one even paid a respectful nod. Like in anything of the sword victory was survival where only the dead were heralded as heroes; only the buried lamented.
Replacing the weapon on the rack was mundane an ending to a day that had commenced like any other. Tomorrow would be the same. So would the next day. All the days after until the war came. Then many epics would be written, many litanies recited; many heroes would rise. Not him. He would simply survive. He, the sword…and Nykk.
There was peace, but it was not a quiet one. It was turbulent and angry; a pit of restless energy accumulated over a lifetime. Another stroke, another challenge met and vanquished.
In between the breaths the Void existed and in each stroke the drumbeat of battle thumped out an unheard rhythm for the body to dance to. Nothing and everything existed beyond the senses. Life and death was in the thrust, fueling boiling blood that ran hot in every fiber. Val’s hair got his face again, but there was no stopping—he couldn’t.
Twisting sharply invited a shooting pain from where the ankle bent awkwardly, but the Fury demanded retribution for every hurt. Swinging in spite of the arms that felt like lead something deep had come unhinged.
How long? It didn’t matter. The body said to keep fighting.
There was no form—no mind, yet there was beauty in it. Liberty sang as the shackling burdens of restraint fell away. No thoughts, no worries, and no pain. Life was at the edge of the wooden blade clenched between gnarled fingers. Had there always been calluses on the knuckles? Don’t think. Don’t stop. Keep fighting.
Inspiration took him to the sky, spine bending awkwardly chasing after the feverish passion coloring the world. Steps, leaps, stumbles—the only rules were between the ring of chalk separating from the rest of the world. The Oneness picked out the scent of lilac on the wind; the Novices were watching again. Don’t think. Listen.
Val was listening. He heard his tortured lungs languishing after an eternity without a full swig of sweet air. He heard the scratch of his tattered boots, the heel nearly fallen off, as it slid across the sandy ground. All of it he could hear, but there was something more.
Right. Left. The guard came up to protect against another blow. Was it fast enough? Don’t think. Don’t stop. Keep fighting.
There were sounds beyond the inner chaos. Voices, shouts—the drone of the Warder Yards in full animation like a great living thing with the teeming Drin’far’ji and Ji’alantin as blood in its sandy veins. He was there too. A speck in the great wheel of fate. Defiantly a shout split the calm of the Void again.
Riposte, parry, feint, thrust. Fodhr’s grunt when they last fought. Valadin had been on the defensive the entire time. Don’t think. Don’t stop. Keep fighting. Sparks flew where there swords met; at the time it had been a good idea to fight with actual steel. A deep dark crescent under the ribs was sufficient argument for the contrary.
Heron Wading in the Rushes came into effortless existence. The body embraced the motion well, the wooden edge cutting true with a snap through the crisp afternoon air. Dots of light danced whenever Val moved; beads of sweat. How long? No. Don’t think.
Suddenly the edge of the ring was there. His heel nearly landed on it, but the sword knew the way. Another advance then high guard and he was back at the center. Weapon and man becoming one. The inner song it grew. It was melancholy at times and robust during others, but it made the heart soar to let bleed into the soul.
Strong base to anchor balance, but never stay motionless. To slow was to die. The Oneness guided a misstep, turning it into Ribbon Dances on the Breeze, but as abruptly as there was form it was gone. Saidin was there. Roaring like the great falls east of Tower. On quiet evenings the distant thunder held a melody for the slumbering warrior in the heart. Don’t stop. Don’t think. Keep moving.
All swiftness guarded to the right and then the left. A small hop backwards to gain space, but to defeat the self was not to be faster. It was to be early. Omniscient.
Gradually the pounding of the blood slowed and the tempo of the fury tapered. When it stopped and Valadin stood alone in the sparring ring, breathless and clothes soaked entirely through, the sun had dipped low becoming little more than an angry line of red in the distance.
No one else watched. No one stood in awe. No one even paid a respectful nod. Like in anything of the sword victory was survival where only the dead were heralded as heroes; only the buried lamented.
Replacing the weapon on the rack was mundane an ending to a day that had commenced like any other. Tomorrow would be the same. So would the next day. All the days after until the war came. Then many epics would be written, many litanies recited; many heroes would rise. Not him. He would simply survive. He, the sword…and Nykk.