Because I've always wondered how completely normal people from all walks of life can become killers, just like that. And because that stupid phrase got stuck in my stupid head. Meh.
Step, lunge, parry, turn, jump, duck, parry, strike, duck, parry, parry, feint low and swipe high, stab, lunge, parry, duck.
It’s a song as familiar as her own name, maybe more so. Her name changes with the seasons, never the same, never steady. There is only one person who remembers her true name now and even he rarely uses it. He still calls her Sun.
But this, this always stays the same. A weapon, a sword, a blade never changes. It never demands new things. It never becomes more or less than it is. A blade is death and the moves are ingrained so deeply in her body that she doesn’t need to think. She just does
. Her arms, her feet and wrists, they all know this dance.
She remembers a man’s voice in her sleep sometimes, telling her to parry quicker, swipe higher, to watch her reach. She remembers the voice telling her to make the weapon a part of her.
She remembers that the voice’s name was, is – will be – Giles and at seventeen she had no idea what he was walking about.
Now, more than a thousand years before he is born, she knows. Leaving home without a weapon feels unnatural. Leaving bed
without at least a knife on her person is not something she has done in a long time.
When she was a girl, mortal still, the Council wanted her to be a weapon. They wanted her to be a blade for their war, their justice. She refused. She struggled. She wanted to be a girl.
For so long, that was all she wanted and then she was free of them, free at the beginning of the world and what she became was…this.
Even now as she fights for her life she doesn’t spare a thought for her moves, her next attack. She simply does.
She once believed that she could escape. That she could be anything, anyone. Anything but a weapon.
She attacks one last time, disarming her opponent, striking low and bringing him to his knees. Then she spins once and his head falls. Another victory. Another quickening. Another day she lived because of the sword in her hands.
Eventually, the weapon becomes you. She knows that now. Understands that no matter how long it takes, survival always takes its toll. She doesn’t mind anymore. She can call herself a weapon now without bitterness in her voice.
It’s easy really, to be like this.
Because eventually the weapon becomes you and when it does, that part of yourself that wants to curl up and cry just fades away.
It makes things a lot simpler.