Where Smoke and Light Collide - ONC 2022

From rags to riches

Anya twirled the wooden spear over her head, pressing the young man in front of her to back up. He held a spear too—and a smirk on his handsome face.

She wanted to wipe that smile away.

Both ends of each spear were dull—practice spears they called them—but they could always break a bone or leave a bloody nose.

"Keep smiling, Aaron," She threatened. "You'll look lovely with a gape between your front teeth."

He brought his arms out exposing his square chest. "Give it your best, Anya."

She felt the heat of the afternoon sun burning against her back and tears of sweat tickling down her skin. Aaron, quite to her flourishing irritation, looked cool under the slim white shirt he wore, his muscles defined as if his height didn't give him already an advantage.

Anya could see his feet well planted on the grassy field, and though his arms were out, his hand had a tight grip and control over the spear. Anya needed to guess his next move, but temper clouded her mind. Aaron always won—this time she wanted to be the victor.

He'll think I'm going for his chest, she kept the smile concealed.

Gritting her teeth, she swung the spear and went for his footing. His spear cut the air with a woosh to come down hard over her attack. Wood against wood cracked. With a quick turn of his body and spear, the free end came down to smack Anya on the back. She fell face-first like a heavy sack, her back stinging across from the blow. Anya rolled over only to find his spear hovering inches from her nose.

"Yield," it wasn't a question.

She swatted the spear away from her face. "Fine. I yield."

Satisfied, he extended his hand and pulled her to her feet. "Don't be so hard on yourself. You're getting better."

"Better?" Anya wiped the grass from her trousers and shirt. "You flatter me."

"At least better than Devon." He gestured with his head at the couple who parried beyond the field.

The redhead youth, when not tripping over the grass, lost his footing on his own spear. While Safiya, his training partner, glared at him with murderous intent.

"Did I waste all morning braiding my hair for this?" Safiya was Lula in birth and in their traditions, her hair should never be cut until she married. Her hair grew past her ankles, and for fights, she made a series of folded braids and of many widths, until a tangle of thick dark rope hung down her back. "Get on your feet and fight me."

Devon looked red in the face, his green eyes squinting. "It's the sun. How can I fight when the sun is in my eyes?"

"Do you have eyes on your feet too? C'mon at least give me your best."

He took a stance with his spear held in both hands, waiting. Safiya sighed desperately. She twirled her spear in a single hand and when she made an attempt to thrust the end at Devon's stomach, he backed up so quickly he fell on his rear. Exasperatedly, Safiya banged her spear on the grass.

"Please," Anya pleaded, " compare me with a rock, not with Devon."

He nudged her with his elbow. "I'm kidding. Really, you did great. You had me on my toes. You've only been practicing for a couple of years. I've been practicing spear,bow, sword—you name it—since I could walk. As for Devon...well, I have no excuse for Devon."

A memory came unbidden, of her time in the orphanage, when on a certain day Cristoff had cornered her in the yard, alone. She couldn't remember his intentions, only that she found a long tree branch and used it much like a spear to send him on his way. That had been real, this all seemed like a game to them.