The Distance Grows Short
The blades, now oiled, arc from their sheathes in a symphony composed of motion. He steps, and turns. His arm holds his wrist, which turns in endless circles and figure eights. He generates power with simple motions, and little exertion, because that was what he was trained to do.
Each movement is measured in efficient need, and what is needed must be reached by any means available. So now, the goals are tangled, and the vengeance he has craved for a year and a season crashes against the faith he has walked beneath for over a millennium. Fourteen hundred years against the death of an elder. That is a strict and tense set of pains to carry, and they tug ever harder against his skin.
The blades are metal and precious, though just as common as death itself. They are made with craftsmanship unmatched, yet they are just tools in the hands of a specialist. They scream silently through the air, hissing ruin as they pass. They were made for killing, but this evening they just go through the motions. Through the motions, like their bearer. Each night until vengeance...
He completes the ancient form of the four directions cut. Each wind- north, south, east, and west - has been killed a thousand times. Yet time does not die. Only people and kindred.
The closest enemy first, said the war-masters of old. The closest must be killed in turn. And so he has. The closest is not measured in inches or feet, but in the reach of influence. He measures in his mind as his fingers turn the hilt over and over again. A wall of steel cuts the room into quarters again and again, while the wheels in his mind cut the distance of space with the measurements of boons and favors, manipulations and developments.
The distance grows short.
Each movement is measured in efficient need, and what is needed must be reached by any means available. So now, the goals are tangled, and the vengeance he has craved for a year and a season crashes against the faith he has walked beneath for over a millennium. Fourteen hundred years against the death of an elder. That is a strict and tense set of pains to carry, and they tug ever harder against his skin.
The blades are metal and precious, though just as common as death itself. They are made with craftsmanship unmatched, yet they are just tools in the hands of a specialist. They scream silently through the air, hissing ruin as they pass. They were made for killing, but this evening they just go through the motions. Through the motions, like their bearer. Each night until vengeance...
He completes the ancient form of the four directions cut. Each wind- north, south, east, and west - has been killed a thousand times. Yet time does not die. Only people and kindred.
The closest enemy first, said the war-masters of old. The closest must be killed in turn. And so he has. The closest is not measured in inches or feet, but in the reach of influence. He measures in his mind as his fingers turn the hilt over and over again. A wall of steel cuts the room into quarters again and again, while the wheels in his mind cut the distance of space with the measurements of boons and favors, manipulations and developments.
The distance grows short.