it doesn't go as planned. it's like her shoulder's hitting a brick wall instead of a person's midsection. she grimaces into the pain and realizes her mistake even before he bows over her and slanders her a fool. 

he hits her back and pain lances down her spine. a choked cry works through parted lips, teasing more pink, and her arms slacken. she scrabbles for purchase on him, but only manages to hitch her fingers in his sweatpants. 

which is mortifying in its own right. 

why are you doing this? it asks. pictures of her balcony, her stretches, the food deliveries, fernando's scheduled visits. go home. go home and stop this now.

but the blood is a heavy copper in her mouth and it is real and it is enough to make her shake her head and get up. again and again and again, not knowing why - not really - only knowing that she must. 

"i'm making mistakes," she says wryly and raises her hands again, settling into a defensive stance. "and learning from you. come on then."

KING WAYLAND

☉

he does not acquiesce. her blood is still singing, still craving the fight. everything she's wanted is here - to fight tooth and nail, fire and fury, and he is instead analyzing her and telling her she is not cut out for it. 

is there more there, to his musings? or is he just playing with her? 

"fuck you. you said you'd teach me. you said you'd help me." she takes a step closer. no running rage, no wild flailing. she stays on guard, hands raised, watching his gaze, memorizing in her peripheral the shape of his shoulder, the placement of his hands. his planted feet, rooting him to the ground. 

"i've given up too much al - " she starts, stops, teeth chattering as reflex shuts her up, as what's left in her system scrambles to string together what it can. reshaping. reconnecting. 

she fights it and tries to shove a palm into his shoulder. 

KING WAYLAND

☉

and he turns, fingers clasped around her wrist, forcing her around. she stares forward, jaw clenched, and his breath is hot in her ear, making her skin crawl. revulsion courses through her as he draws her flush against him and she is painfully reminded of her violation, lips burning - 

mist slaking her throat, pulling her in and out and coaxing her back, watching her sputter and kick to the surface and away, air gone, nothing but his palm, his wrist, his sweetness closing around her, giving her everything she's ever asked for and everything she's ever wanted - purpose.

"i'm no one," she says roughly. "that's what you said. no name. no self. no nothing. you told me - " she raises her hands, curves fingers against his arm until her nails dig in, a desperate edge to her voice, "you would show me how to earn it."

KING WAYLAND

☉

liquid under her fingers, fingerprints staining, straining, and his vice grip only tightens. she stares outward and his words are an acrid poison, reminding her that she is nothing without him. fernando made her whole. fernando fixed her. fernando provided for her. fernando made her strong. 

born to the moon, from a woman too weak to claw her way out of life's tumultuous undertow, from a father exhausted beyond measure, throwing in the towel and putting her off on someone else. as a child, she thought herself a burden, but quickly abandoned the thought. 

told herself they were only holding her back, that all they would have done was hold her back. her destiny was out there, waiting. childhood bullies scratched and bleeding, startled by molten gold, a fury barely contained in the scrap of a girl. 

his hips grind into her backside and what remains of the mist finally takes control, burrowing into that animal part of her brain that wants to forget everything else. 

she shoves a foot back, hooks it around his ankle, and pitches to the side with a snarl. 

KING WAYLAND

☉

what's not her or isn't her can't be parsed. there is a gnawing hunger in her parched throat and her pupils are flexing as she prowls away from him. she hunches, thinking of it in her muscles, ridiculing herself for believing at any point at all that he was harming her. that he could harm her by springing leaks, trickling it out with her blood. 

she is a sword. she is an arrow. she is a walking pyre, waiting for the right flame. waiting for his promise. 

his words don't make sense. she knows the language of hissing snarls, a battered dragon spitting as it takes a final stand. her fingers flex. 

"you don't know me," she says and her voice feels foreign. someone else is at the helm and everything is easier now. 

"you don't know anything."

KING WAYLAND

☉

his blows cannot reach her. she is not freya morningstar, fashioned daughter of the sun. she is not the painting lessons with sophia, the sparring sessions with theodore, the sense of belonging, of home. 

she is a living weapon and she will fight until her edges are blunt, her hilt splintered. she will go down in flames and only then, will she know rest. 

he is in her way. he will cut her down before her final stand. he will hurt her to hurt him. and she cannot let that happen. 

"you stoke a fire you don't understand. we are above this. you are nothing in the grand scheme of things, turncoat." fingers twitch. "i shouldn't have bothered." 

why did you? why did i? why are you - am i - here?

her gaze flickers, uncertain. the thirst returns and she scratches at her throat, dragging his blood along her skin. she looks past him, to the door. 

KING WAYLAND

☉