[Naruto] Arabian ninjas 5
AU, Hyuuga-centered, 'Hilal' = 'light of the moon' = Hinata. 'Nejm' = 'star' = Neji.
fragment the first, fragment the second, the third, and the fourth.
v.
The first time Hilal makes her sword change hands in the middle of a spar, she's scowling and her jaw is clenched, and Nejm sees the movement exactly for what it is - awkward and still too slow, though Hilal has been steadily improving - and he wonders for a moment if he is going to allow her to complete the move. He wonders, for a moment as he watches the sword describe a graceful arch, graceful because even Hilal cannot make their sword fighting ugly, and he takes his decision when Hilal's hand is half-open like a nenuphar, and her wrist ready to spring and grab the scything hilt.
He deflects the sword with a hit that sends it planting with a dull sound into the sand.
"Again," he's about to order, like he did last time, and the time before, and every time for the last past hour, and which he only started after the first few hours.
Again, and Hilal will retrieve her sword and try again and fail again and fall again and somewhere along the line he will see slow fire burning in the liquid of her eyes and she will start, a gesture, an idea, an aborted motion, proof he isn't wasting their time and she can learn - something like what she just did, again. And he will foil her, again, because that is the way Hilal gives the best of herself, and, if truth be told, Nejm is getting frustrated wih her, with his apparent unability to teach her in any swift or efficient manner, but mostly-
But Hilal's hand crashes into his jaw before he has time to utter the word.
It's not enough to send him to the ground, of course. It's more than enough to still him, and time, and make bursts of darkness spark in front of his eyes.
Hilal is breathing deeply as she glares at him, her lips curled back like something poisonous, standing there with her shoulders hunched, small, compact, and tense, and she looks like nothing but herself. When the wind dislodges a lock of her hair from behind her ear, she lets it as she pins him with her stare. She's burning and she wants him to burn with her.
Mutely, Nejm lifts a hand to massage his chin, work his jaw. It's only half for show.
She doesn't look down. If anything, her expression takes on a mutinous edge. She isn't challenging him to call her on it, he knows; she's going to stand by her actions even if he does.
When Nejm was four, he received his first sword. It was a wooden sword, and he was expected to take as good care of it as any warrior should do with his weapon. He still has it. It broke several times, and the last was taken as the sign that he could move onto nobler blades, but he kept the pieces. He couldn't say if it's a child's toy or a warrior's trophy, and he never fixed it. He never made the time for it.
The first time he broke the sword, it was because he'd miscalculated how strongly he could strike; the last time, it was because he wanted a metal sword.
A warrior is supposed to take good care of his weapon, but Hilal is not a warrior.
He bows his head.
Steel sliding out of sand sounds half like tearing silk half like pebbles crackling. He doesn't say a word as Hilal picks her sword up, again. He isn't looking at her, but he imagines he has studied her enough to be able to read her feelings even though he isn't looking at her. He can hear her frustration. (It's only grown stronger because he didn't raise to the bait.)
When he looks up she's poised to attack again. She still doesn't have the correct position exactly down, but even if she did, she'd fail anyway. Nejm knows this. He also knows that it doesn't matter; the two of them are going to continue on the path they've engaged. The thing he doesn't know is why. (Because he knows he mightnotmaynotwillnot always be there. Because she will ot have it any other way. Because if it is the only way for him to be with her, if it is the only way for him to make her burn, if it is the only way for anything, then so be it.)
"I'm ready when you are," she says, as if she was the one waiting. Her tone is short and not entirely soft.
The corner of his lips twitches - he quenches the smile down before it can make itself known. She may or may not have seen - probably not - but it's no reason to taunt her, and it's even less reason to let her gather that he's happy with the development.
"Very well." He pauses with his sword half-way raised. She doesn't bristle, she doesn't shift her weight, just keeps on looking at him with the same anticipatory intent and the wind plays briefly in her hair and makes the sand dance around her feet. He contemplates for a moment.
She's a failure of a swordsman, but it doesn't matter. She isn't a warrior. She's learning how to handle a fight.
"The windpipe would hurt more," he finally informs her.
The next time she rushes at him, she elbows him in the gut.
fragment the first, fragment the second, the third, and the fourth.
v.
The first time Hilal makes her sword change hands in the middle of a spar, she's scowling and her jaw is clenched, and Nejm sees the movement exactly for what it is - awkward and still too slow, though Hilal has been steadily improving - and he wonders for a moment if he is going to allow her to complete the move. He wonders, for a moment as he watches the sword describe a graceful arch, graceful because even Hilal cannot make their sword fighting ugly, and he takes his decision when Hilal's hand is half-open like a nenuphar, and her wrist ready to spring and grab the scything hilt.
He deflects the sword with a hit that sends it planting with a dull sound into the sand.
"Again," he's about to order, like he did last time, and the time before, and every time for the last past hour, and which he only started after the first few hours.
Again, and Hilal will retrieve her sword and try again and fail again and fall again and somewhere along the line he will see slow fire burning in the liquid of her eyes and she will start, a gesture, an idea, an aborted motion, proof he isn't wasting their time and she can learn - something like what she just did, again. And he will foil her, again, because that is the way Hilal gives the best of herself, and, if truth be told, Nejm is getting frustrated wih her, with his apparent unability to teach her in any swift or efficient manner, but mostly-
But Hilal's hand crashes into his jaw before he has time to utter the word.
It's not enough to send him to the ground, of course. It's more than enough to still him, and time, and make bursts of darkness spark in front of his eyes.
Hilal is breathing deeply as she glares at him, her lips curled back like something poisonous, standing there with her shoulders hunched, small, compact, and tense, and she looks like nothing but herself. When the wind dislodges a lock of her hair from behind her ear, she lets it as she pins him with her stare. She's burning and she wants him to burn with her.
Mutely, Nejm lifts a hand to massage his chin, work his jaw. It's only half for show.
She doesn't look down. If anything, her expression takes on a mutinous edge. She isn't challenging him to call her on it, he knows; she's going to stand by her actions even if he does.
When Nejm was four, he received his first sword. It was a wooden sword, and he was expected to take as good care of it as any warrior should do with his weapon. He still has it. It broke several times, and the last was taken as the sign that he could move onto nobler blades, but he kept the pieces. He couldn't say if it's a child's toy or a warrior's trophy, and he never fixed it. He never made the time for it.
The first time he broke the sword, it was because he'd miscalculated how strongly he could strike; the last time, it was because he wanted a metal sword.
A warrior is supposed to take good care of his weapon, but Hilal is not a warrior.
He bows his head.
Steel sliding out of sand sounds half like tearing silk half like pebbles crackling. He doesn't say a word as Hilal picks her sword up, again. He isn't looking at her, but he imagines he has studied her enough to be able to read her feelings even though he isn't looking at her. He can hear her frustration. (It's only grown stronger because he didn't raise to the bait.)
When he looks up she's poised to attack again. She still doesn't have the correct position exactly down, but even if she did, she'd fail anyway. Nejm knows this. He also knows that it doesn't matter; the two of them are going to continue on the path they've engaged. The thing he doesn't know is why. (Because he knows he mightnotmaynotwillnot always be there. Because she will ot have it any other way. Because if it is the only way for him to be with her, if it is the only way for him to make her burn, if it is the only way for anything, then so be it.)
"I'm ready when you are," she says, as if she was the one waiting. Her tone is short and not entirely soft.
The corner of his lips twitches - he quenches the smile down before it can make itself known. She may or may not have seen - probably not - but it's no reason to taunt her, and it's even less reason to let her gather that he's happy with the development.
"Very well." He pauses with his sword half-way raised. She doesn't bristle, she doesn't shift her weight, just keeps on looking at him with the same anticipatory intent and the wind plays briefly in her hair and makes the sand dance around her feet. He contemplates for a moment.
She's a failure of a swordsman, but it doesn't matter. She isn't a warrior. She's learning how to handle a fight.
"The windpipe would hurt more," he finally informs her.
The next time she rushes at him, she elbows him in the gut.