#addystory

[coldlongpromises]

SPLIT pt. 1 (listen) 

No troll had ever scared her.

Aderith Stromborne navigates the spire hanging over the sea, the way her plate boots sound when they hit the ornate stones drowned out by the waves crashing against the cliffside. Red-and-gold tabards line the edges of her gaze, circle up the spire’s ramps in search of clues. There had to’ve been fifteen of them, total. 

As she steps into the center of the second platform, sure they had lost out on a possible lead, her back began to burn.

The runic tattoos, black and curved over her her shoulders to the center of her back pulsed painfully once before dulling to a weak simmer. More surprised than anything, Aderith grimaces behind the deep brown Amani mask that sat over face. Green eyes shift away from the sea, toward the mountain on their right, as she steps forward. Five Oathsworn follow her, several strides behind.

A mass of gray-green meet her gaze. Hulking undead trolls rush from the structure built in to the cliff, pouring around the investigation party - rushing the ramps which held Oathsworn seeking evidence of Maz’jin’s presence. Most rush past their group, curiously, leaving Aderith bewildered. Her sword hefts in her left hand, her right fills with arcanic fire, eyes turning in confusion as the enemies flood right past.

Last to exit, Maz’jin rushes forward. Aderith’s shoulders feel as though they’re on fire. The sudden pain dulls the Strom’s reaction time, and suddenly the Oathsworn around her are on the ground. Maz’jin’s blade connects with her own, a parry she doesn’t register until her sword’s already up to her chest. The huge troll sports braided hair, shaped and styled in varying widths to create its own headdress. Across the spire, she hears the trolls tearing through the Children of Lothar.

They exchange blows for several minutes. Maz’jin brings his blade down, hard, on the plated Amani mask protecting Aderith’s head. Saronite hits her face. A deafening crack announces the devastation before Addy feels it, the mask split diagonally down the right side of her features. Her face, too, is split - the blow nearly clipping her right eye. When the metal touches her skin, terror floods the Stromic woman’s insides. Blood is replaced by fear. 

The skin on her shoulders feels as if its melting into her muscles. Fire licks up her right arm, thrust outward at the Amani with a pain-filled roar. 

He responds by grabbing her wrist, yanking her plate-covered limb down so hard the woman can feel her bones separating. The armor creaks in protest, and the blonde screams over the sound of waves hitting the rocks below. Her arm drops limply at her side, heavier than it was worth, now. Breathing becomes hard, between the dents made to her chestplate and the intense pain surfing through her entire form. 

Something is wrong, inside, too. Vision out of her right eye becomes intensely blurred, irritated when the moon’s light bounces off of the ocean’s surface to illuminate Maz’jin’s olive-toned features. She has barely touched him. 

Aderith is dying. 

Fear courses her form, tears blur what remains of her unfocused gaze. In the distance, she registers Al’s voice. Alasdair. Alasdair. Hope, the cruelest thing, leaps in her chest. It focuses her gaze. Al would save her. Alasdair is coming.

Jason’s roar, too. Dagan’s otherworldly candor, a tactful whirr. The grunt of pain that follows Elaianna’s body hitting the stone ramp above. Reinforcements had arrived. Tears make tracks down Aderith’s bloody face, but her feeble attempts to summon fire at her right hand’s fingers makes screams pass through clenched, frustrated teeth. She cannot save herself. There would be no winning.

She is scared of this troll. 

Maz’jin’s massive green paw glows with light-absorbing nothingness. Void. The tattoos on her back feel like they light aflame. Oh. Void sat between her shoulders. A shortcut, Buzz had assured her. A quicker way to arcanic mastery and power. He pointed to the tattoos across his upper arms. 

What a fucking fool.

[coldlongpromises]

per @greenapplesprite Alasdair Daviteson x Aderith Stromborne things you said when you thought i was asleep

AFTER MAZ’JIN’S AMBUSH

Alasdair takes the first shift. After a particularly violent outburst at the Children of Lothar headquarters, he suggests she be moved to her father’s home for familiarity’s sake. He cradles her broken body against his own as they fly to Stormwind in silence. 

When they arrive, Markos and the twins pour over her with worry. 

Her face, oh Gods, her face. Her arm. Will she ever be able to hold her sword again?

Al briefs the family on the condition of their heirloom blade. Markos’s face falls further. He murmurs something about the blade killing his children.

The warrior-paladin winds her up the spiral stairs to their small shared bedroom. He lowers her into her bed, her green eyes slits as they watch him. Tears leak down her cheeks like rivers, uncontrollable. She shakes, full body. It pains her, and he can tell.

Armor is stripped off until both wore loose clothes and curled, together, under the light blankets of her bed. It was far too small for the two of them, but Al simply enveloped Aderith in a full-body cradle. When he’s sure she’s asleep, he whispers:

“Addy, you can’t keep doing this. I almost lost you. What would I do if I lost you? I love you, I love you, I love you.”  His lips sit right behind her ear, repeating over and over again until he, himself, falls asleep. Tears slither down her face and soak the pillowcase beneath it. 

[coldlongpromises]

per @greenapplesprite Alasdair Daviteson x Aderith Stromborne things you said when you were crying

“Al, I can’t do this,” Aderith sobs, defeated, lifting her forehead from the balls of her palms. The night had been nothing but trouble. Their members were out of control, and Addy appeared to’ve been the only one capable of dealing with them. Then, after completely removing one - something she had not intended to do or wanted to do - and demoting another, a dispute breaks out in the street as the Children lounge about.

Jason’s past lady-friend. A royal bitch who ripped and tore at his feelings, attempted to degrade him in the public eye, targetted the Blonde specifically. Are you going to fuck her, too?

What the fuck.

Elaianna and Valicene get in to it. For the third time that day, the boat is brought up. So far, Aderith’s largest fuck up. Great, fantastic. It would never go away. So, she leaves - flies back to the Highlands. That’s where she hides, now, when she thinks about things. Trolls just die, they don’t ask questions. They don’t need people to fix things for them. Fye, Anna and her court-mage show. Addy feels better, having taken a troll down and at work extracting its tusks. She’s excited to have company - delighted to relax, something she hadn’t done in quite some time. Moments later, Elaianna drops another problem in to her lap - calls Aderith a poor leader for ‘running’ from her issues. 

The blonde settles into a chair at Headquarters, Alasdair Daviteson pacing one side of the room. Soon, her problems spin. Hone in on Zero.

“She’s just so different. She’s distant. She’s cold. There’s something missing, some big thing gone. Oh, Light, what if it was Gilfer? What if that’s what’s missing?” Addy gasps, trying to catch her breath. She kneads her forehead worriedly. “I miss Arias. I miss him so much. Life is so much harder. You’re so busy and he’s just, well. She’s just.” 

Aderith buries her head in her arms, breath ragged. Tears drip on to the dark wood beneath her wrists.

Alasdair hovers nearby, curls his massive arms fully around her body. He cradles her to his chest, frowning worriedly, petting her head. “Hey, it’s okay. I know. I miss him too, Addy. It’s okay.”

( @greenapplesprite )

[coldlongpromises]

I WILL BUY YOU A NEW LIFE | EVERCLEAR they might think you're happy / yeah maybe for a minute or two they can't make you laugh / no they can't make you feel the way that i do

Leather straps strain some as Addy squeezes the metal bar of the bindings between her chestpiece around one of the pock-marked holes. Light, it had been literal years since she wore the brushed iron and teal cloth set. Spikey shoulder pads click in to place without any issue. Momentarily, the blonde reflects on her choice of wardrobe. Ever-armored, always hefting some kind of blade or shield. 

She shudders. It’s uncomfortable to think about. Not only does her body look strange bound up in cloth and leathers, but she feels so naked and vulnerable. There had been whispers in the taverns of a Black Market in the harbor district of the city. Given the absence of many of her close associates - everyone’s attention having turned to the issues in Howling Fjord - Aderith craves some kind of positive socialization.

The harbor bustles with activity, even late at night. Blue eyes scan nooks and crannies with curiosity and interest. When Addy finally finds the place, she slows to a stop in awe. 

Vendors line two sides of the street, all offering fanciful displays. A woman sells ale from a tent. In the distance, what appears to be a collection of hodge-podge artifacts and knick-knacks catches her attention. At her right bustles the weapons tent. Vaguely, Aderith catches a familiar voice, but in the chaos cannot place it. Her attention is drawn away, at any rate, as Fyeloren approaches her from behind.

They resolve to head to the oddities cart. There, they find Northrend’s finest creepy shit: saronite and Drakkari wards against the Loa. Useful, given their current situation. The least Addy can do, given that she had yet to leave the Kingdoms. As she produces her coinpurse, Aderith catches the familiar voice once more. Jason Bloodmane. 

Her heart just about falls into her butt. The trollslayer had begun considering Jason ... differently ... after their walk through the Alterac region to Arathi. Sure, not only was he handsome, but there was a particularity about his person that gave Addy pause. He loves his sons fiercely, as evidenced by his baking ability and the soft way his voice dropped when he brought up Viktor. Jason was educated, always knowing more about the world’s current events than Addy could imagine remembering. 

And, he liked her. Genuinely. From the way she looked to the way she acted, how Strom ran through her veins and the way she fought. The concept made Aderith’s stomach flip when she thought about it. Her busted face is mended by a concerned healer, she strikes up casual conversation with the man who had, minutes before, painted a beautiful portrait of Jason. Addy waves him over to the group after they relocate - includes him in their conversation by physically prodding his arm. He responds by prodding and dancing his fingers across the back of her neck. Light. The set of armor she pulled out of retirement feels particularly tight.

Jason mentions that he likes her ‘new’ set of armor, admires her choice of polearm. It becomes hard to breathe.

They went to get drinks. After waiting in line for some time, picking up Alexander Maknus somewhere along the way, Jason and Aderith approach the vendor, grinning hard at each other’s responses to a previous conversation. The woman tending makes a comment about them being an attractive couple, making Addy stumble through her actions. Suddenly, getting her coinpurse is difficult.

Jason pays for everything before she can argue. Her whole face is hot. She scoots toward the bay, finding a suitable area to slow as the boys follow her. Plopping to the ground, Aderith sets her crate of goods aside to consider the letter, in Zandali, that Jason had recovered the night before. The information was troubling - their concerns had been confirmed. Faustus’s Alliance had dispatched a faction to Lordaeron to gather more souls, likely appointing the Amani troll Maz’jin to its head.

But, she had no time to mope. Immediately, surrounded by their guildmates and friends, the Children of Lothar chatter excitedly to one another. Business is left behind. Conversations ranging from raunchy questionnaires (horns, or pigtails?) to deliciously baked snack foods (donuts, muffins and cupcakes) sate the Children’s social and literal appetites. This is peace, this made her happy. Jason begins recounting the Elite Tauren Chieftan’s albums to her, exactly as he’d left of earlier in the week, cracking jokes between explanations. Her cheeks ache from smiling. Aderith likes him.

Later, Fyeloren comments that everyone could tell.

(@greenapplesprite, @alexmaknusooc*) *For some reason it’s not letting me tag your actual character blog.But visit @alexmaknus!

[coldlongpromises]

SHE SAYS THAT LOVE IS FOR FOOLS WHO FALL BEHIND  AND I’M SOMEWHERE IN BETWEEN. I NEVER REALLY KNOW A KILLER FROM A SAVIOR ‘TIL I BREAK AT THE BEND.

part two of three

Two figures curl in a large bed deep within a Gilnean manor, tucked far from the forsaken’s reach. Rain beats down against the windows relentlessly overnight, stormclouds dumping the water unceremoniously over the mountainous Gilnean landscape. When the time comes, the sun rises up into the sky to grant muffled gray light down through the Gilnean clouds, lighting up Jason's room ever so slightly. When she wakes, Jason isn’t within the confines of his bedroom. The covers coil around her tanned form as she sits up, looking left and right.

There was a lack of silence, however, deep in the house despise his absence. Instead, in the distance, metal lightly scrapes against something. Plates are set with gentle clinks. A muffled conversation between a deep voice that was obviously Jason's and some lighter unknown voice that could've been feminine. Maybe not. At any rate, if Addy were going to enter any … conversation … with anyone, she’d need some clothes. Green eyes scan the room, only to locate bits and pieces of her armor scattered about with no underclothes (well, that'd be fucking uncomfortable) and Jason’s far oversized clothing.

The blonde shifts her eyes left and right in the dim light, tanned body shivering a little. It was cold up north, even in the summertime. Colder than Stormwind, anyway. So, she pulls on one of Jason's massive shirts - trying to find something with a higher neckline, so her titties aren't just hangin' out. Then, she looks left and right for something that'd suffice as pants, though the shirt came down past the scandalous parts of her thighs. "Shit," she mumbles, eyes lifted toward the door. A voice. More than just Jason. Fuck. What had she gotten herself into? The unfamiliar voice expresses something, but given the barrier between them, it’s difficult for Addy to tell what. She hears no deep response from Jason, but instead heavy footsteps. Closer and closer. Then, the Gilnean opens the door wide enough to enter, leaning up against the frame. Aderith shrinks visibly, hands drifting to her legs, then her chest, then her legs. What should she cover? The woman shuts her eyes tight as he walks in - but relaxes once she's aware of who it was. Embarrassed, the woman tugs the shirt down a little, cheeks red. "Oh hey luv! Awake already?" He eyes her over with that big ol' shirt, a whistle let off. "Oomf luv, I love the initiative yer goin' with ya' look, real sexy. Anyways, I wus coming up here ta' ask if ya' wanted blueberry or vanilla pancakes for breakfast?" "I, uh. I," she stammers. "What did you just ask, I'm sorry?" "Blueberry, or vanilla pancakes, what'll it be luv?" Jason chuckles as he asks plainly, eyes raking over her. "You are damn cute ya' know that? I'll make you a set of each. Come on, I'll be in the kitchen."

The hulking man waves her on as he heads the kitchen. "And don't worry about pants! I got all of our clothes from last night into my Gilnean washing machine! Don't want that stank on ya' afterwards." Aderith gapes, head bobbing dumbly. She follows him very closely, just a few steps behind. Her green eyes are wide, taking in the interior of his manor in the low grey light. Her arms fold over her chest, tanned feet padding over wood floors. Jason hums as he leads her through the building, slowing as the reached the kitchen.

On one side, a stove stood with obvious pancake batter in two silvered bowls nearby. The countertops are a dusky marble, making its way cleanly ‘round the kitchen. A large steel box stands open - Aderith can feel the cold air from the interior of the box, which was pulled open vertically. Over the counter, however, she could not see anyone lingering within. Maybe Jason had left it open? The small rifling sounds which are produced suggest otherwise. Aderith slows as Aiden comes into sight. His hair is black, extremely wavy with neat ringlets. His skin, like his father’s, is the pale white of someone who saw very little sun, and his eyes were deep red. A hardback book is curled under one arm carefully, shifted to rest atop the counter by the young man. He pours maple syrup over a stack of pancakes sitting in front of his seat. The young boy cuts into the cakes, munching through the first few bites. Jason, meanwhile, had moved to the stove - tending to pancakes newly poured into a sizzling skillet. The nervou woman stops entirely a few paces away from the kitchen. Arms still loosely coil over her torso, green eyes huge. This was his son. The blonde shifts uneasily, turning eyes over to the back of Jason's head, mouth agape. Well, the kitchen smelled amazing, so there was that.

[coldlongpromises]

CHAPTER V —  I’VE GOTTA WAIT FOR YOU DIE YOUNG  Sleep was never an issue for Aderith, even through her recovery. It always came to her swiftly, bringing an intense feeling of warmth and safety. The Stromic woman had never been one for nightmares, only haunted by them in times of intense stress while her mind worked things out in overtime, so thankfully only the first few weeks of her stay in Elwynn forest were plagued by bad dreams. Months later, when Leiona departs to drink with the other priests, no real nightmares itch the inside of Addy’s skull. Instead, phantoms drift just out of reach. (1, 2, 3, 4)

She remembers a beautiful man with silver hair who tasted like arcane and made her soul ache. His face is hard to place, ever-changing and vague in detail. Feminine and masculine features blend and slide across a pale visage. The lips always curl upward into a smile that both comforts and chills the Strom. One moment, he wears heavy plate armor. The next, his garb is heavy cloth.

A hollow sadness weaves through Aderith. She finds herself standing in front of him, her left arm lofted and fingers reaching - hand lit with swirling, shimmering purple flame. Before the half-elf’s fingers can reach Addy, he vanishes. More than anything, Aderith takes away a healthy dose of frustration and a soft panic at the back of her brain.

He was important, and she cannot remember him. Not his face, not his name.

The blonde is not afraid. Not really. Confusion replaces terror, discomfort blooms instead of anxiety. Fuzzy scenes play out in front of her, settings twisting and turning like an abstract scenic painting - a dirty city pub, a half-dead forest, a rocking vessel with red and gold flags, long golden grasses, luxurious Gilnean architecture filled with expensive furniture, a place where everything was dark. Dark. Dark.

Darkness.

A whisper. The fields of blood, the fields of blood, the fields of blood.

Faces form and vanish, too fast to process fully. When Aderith turns, makes an effort to move as far from the unsettling rush of information, her feet seem rooted. She should know these people, but none of them ring a bell. Their names are all on the tip of her tongue, bundling together and creating a hot knot in her throat. Tears threaten to overflow past her waterline, breath fast and panicked - silent in the nothingness.

Saul and Rickard’s faces stall her panic. They linger, as if aware that they’ve been recognized, both massive men sliding thick arms around Aderith’s back. She has never forgotten them, her brothers, their identical shapes are always easy to conjure. Even after Argus, they were guaranteed. Their presence slows her breathing. Rickard brings his hand up to squeeze her shoulder reassuringly. Saul pinches her the naked underside of her arm. Annoying.

There is a certain degree of incompleteness that still unsettles Aderith, despite the presence of  the Stromic duo. A gnawing knowledge that while her brothers complete a set of sorts, she is a ghost lacking a similar reflection. Even as Addy flashes on the homestead, her father and mother’s faces early in the morning before their first meal of the day, there is an empty seat, the bed beside her own in their lofty attic bedroom vacant.

Her breath quickens. Left in the darkness, the blonde fishes for the answer. Just like the identities of her earlier visitors, it sits at the front of her mouth and refuses to gather into a complete thought. Instead, a loneliness spreads across her insides from a deep place inside of the Stromic woman. A missing piece. Frustrated, Aderith balls her fingers into her palms. In the blackness, there is nothing to destroy. Teeth grit together hard, making her head pound.

In the far distance, another large shape approaches her at an almost impossibly slow gait. It is a man, built like her father, with wide broad shoulders. He is important, too. She remembers him, but only in bits. Fingers uncurl from their fists as slowly as the figure moves toward her. He has dark hair, he makes her smile often, he brings the same kind of warmth and safety that sleep does. A breath of relief snakes out of her trembling lips. Aderith has, thus far, kept the tears at bay.

When she remembers his willpower, he speeds his stride. This man is capable of burying his intense anger, the thing that threatens to push him over the edge. His self-control is something Aderith admires, she remembers, not only as a core principle when they fought side-by-side in combat but as a grounding, necessary attribute he could not survive without.

The frustrated, confused tears that flooded her eyes melt away as the figure nears. He is her favorite person. Massive arms wrap her newly lean, skinny, soft body and draw Aderith up. Some things are as fuzzy as others, as blurry, but he is the only thing she can recall with clarity. When he pulls back, Addy takes in his worried brows and the way his lips part to ask where she’d gone.

Alasdair.

She wakes to darkness and Leiona’s face looming over her, eyes wide with new fear.

“We have to go,” the priestess whispers.

[coldlongpromises]

CHAPTER IV —  MONTHS AFTER ARGUS

DEVIL LIKE ME

After Argus, even months after, my memory is fuzzy. Everything important feels trapped on the other side of a foggy ravine. I can’t see any of it clearly, people and places wander just out of reach, but I don’t dwell on it too much. A little comes back to me everyday and I progress physically faster, which is something better to look toward anyway, right? My daily routine becomes far more active once I’m able to walk on my own. I’m beginning to feel like me, again. Aderith Stromborne.

(1, 2, 3)

In bed one night, Leiona takes my hand in the darkness. She is seated beside me, slouching slightly, with sad eyes. I lay my other hand on top of hers.

“Khrys wants you to go, now that you can move on your own,” she murmurs.

I draw a breath in and exhale my words: “I understand.”

“I don’t want you to, though.”

My head shakes. Suddenly, I’m very nervous about my hands becoming sweaty. I lift one free of our pile, letting it rest in my blanketed lap.

“We have some of your personal items - things that they found with you,” Leiona continues quietly. Her head turns down, chocolate waves obscuring her face in the dark. “I’m sure it’ll get you to the City.”

I’m still worried about my hand being sweaty, but I turn my palm up anyway. Fingers interlock as I squeeze her hand. My head bows as I lean forward, close to the woman at my bedside. I have to keep my voice low.

“What if I just … finished recovering at your house? I need to train with armor and somekind of weapons, get back into fighting shape, and then … well, then, I can worry about getting to the City,” I whisper. My free hand lifts from my lap to touch her face. The Light blesses me only in that my hand doesn’t shake. It’s a lot less sweaty than I’m expecting, too. Good.

Her head turns up, her face splits in to a wide smile. When she speaks, she breathes relief. Excitement. Leiona’s excited.

I’m excited.

“You need to sleep and I need to get going,” Leiona whispers back, hardly able to keep her voice down. “I’m meeting a few of the folks around here for a drink at the Inn in Goldshire and I’m running late. Tomorrow, after I’m done, I’ll just … take you home with me! Khrys will be happy to get you out of here, I’m sure he won’t object.”

She pulls her hand from mine, shoulders her coat with ease. I watch her button the front. My face feels hot - nervous, excited - and my hands are definitely sweaty, now. Carefully, I slide them under the blankets as Leiona finishes buttoning. The other woman dips to adjust the pillows behind my head, smiling down at me. She’s so close, I nearly bring my sweaty hands out from under the blankets to touch her. I don’t, though. I’m way too worried about how clammy they are.

Once she leaves, I sink low into my bed. Rest would be good. Tomorrow would be a big day.

[coldlongpromises]

CHAPTER III  —  BEFORE ARGUS

DEVIL LIKE ME

Before Jason and I made it out to Argus, we’d had weeks to prepare. I spent most of my time with my family, pulled away from the Children of Lothar as I recovered from my near-fatal brush with Maz’jin. We cut stone and trained daily - Jason and I spent time preparing. Argus would be no easy task, of course, but Jason was convinced that we would do fine so long as we had adequately planned. I, reluctantly, agreed after weeks of argument. Fine. We’d do fine.

(1, 2)

My father was not happy that I’d decided to go do this. First, he forbid me from leaving the house - which made very little sense, given that I was still mostly bed-ridden in my recovery. I hadn’t seen him actually angry in quite a while, but the way he yelled and balled his fists made me reluctant to disobey him. Then, days later once calmed, he gave me a requirement.

“It’s for your benefit,” he assured, fists still balled. Arms crossed. “But, it’s also for me.”

So, as Strombornes always do, we focused on my recovery through gradual training. At first, we simply worked on drills in the street just in front of my father’s shop. We worked during the day, so we rose early in the morning to practice on the uneven stones before Old Town woke. The marker for my complete recovery would be when I could best both of my brothers in combat. A simple task, really. I had far, far more experience than either of them.

Training went on at a crawl. Drill after drill. Weapon after weapon. I struggled with the consistency. Saul and Rickard seemed unbroken, unbothered by the routine, but my mind races. At times, I would be consumed with anxiety about Argus. Looking to the sky caused my chest to hurt, watching the green fires twist and churn over the alien surface. My heart still ached when Arias crossed my mind - that wound was still fresh, despite my goings-on with Jason. Alasdair focused his time more and more in Silverpine, particularly after learning my intentions. Though he was active in the beginning parts of my recovery after Maz’jin’s destruction, Al chose to stay true to his nature by avoiding me during this period of conflict. Fear crippled me any time I thought about leading the Children of Lothar alongside him. So many had died when we’d gone after Maz’jin, and beyond our brief excursion out to Northrend, nothing had been achieved. And here I went, to war on a different planet against enemies that, historically, could not die.

Standing between the boys, sweat beads at my brow. I draw in long, controlled, painful breaths. The two weeks I had spent reduced to a whimpering ball in bed had taken a toll on my body. My left arm sustained a fair amount of damage, reacts with delayed reflex. I’m stiffer than I’d ever been, even after stretching. Daily training was required to keep up with the demands of heavy weaponry and armor. My father’s whistle breaks our strides, turns our heads toward his shop.

“The streets will be crowded soon,” Poppa reminds as we near. “Today’s the day. Let’s get it done and go to work.”

Oof. What?  The boys turn their eyes over on to me, survey my look of surprise, then look to each other. I back toward the center of the street, recovering from my moment of stunned hesitation, turning the end of my polearm defensively toward Saul. The boys murmur low in a brief exchange that I can’t pick up, then whip toward me without sparing a moment. Saul shows off some by flipping his blades before bringing them down..

I beat Saul’s first blade away with an easy twist of my wrists, the back end of the polearm catching the hilt of Rickard’s maul. Smiling is hard to avoid when the two of them look so focused. They come at me again fiercely, synchronized, and I battle them back easily enough, but tire of the defense game. With a roll of my left shoulder, I step forward. My father’s gaze burns in to my skin as I jab at Rickard, forcing him back, carrying the momentum through to swing down at Saul.

As his twin backs away, Rickard approaches. I kick the back end of the polearm up to catch him, but I miscalculate something. He bats it down with his maul, my hands lose their steadfast grip on the weapon’s hilt and I fumble. Heat floods my face. Without ordering them to, my teeth grit tightly together. Rather than allowing this mishap to take me down, I release the polearm entirely - half shoving it to the street. It clatters toward Rickard, the sound of stone on wood and metal causing my head to pound. Saul catches my armored elbow with the edge of his blade, bringing my attention back around.

Both come at me, though I keep my fists raised. Before I can even register what fully happens, Saul has caused me to stumble back in to Rickard. I try to pull back, dodge, duck - anything - but my body won’t cooperate. Poppa whistles again to signal that the fight’s done as both of the twins stand over me. A pair of mismatched hands reach to help me up.

“What happened?” I say through tightly grit teeth, batting their armored fingers away. It takes me a moment to roll up to my feet.

“You’re just a little slow, Addy,” Rickard murmurs, voice low as if we were exchanging a secret. A secret that makes no sense - I am the fastest. The strongest. The oldest, now. The best. Saul moves away from us with a smug satisfaction. I want to punch him in the face.

My father’s giant hand rests atop my head. Instinctively, I want to brush it away. Instead, I release a short puff of air. Saul’s kept his distance, cutting me off to scoop up my poleaxe. Poppa nods approvingly. I want to punch him in the face, too. We move into the shop just as the sun turns the sky pink over the red-roofed buildings around us. “You should take advantage of your size, Ad,” he murmurs, like the critique would break me. His suggestion does not make me want to punch him in the face any less. “Change something you’re doing. Pick where you’re putting your energy.”

I draw in a hot breath. My left hand lifts to wipe the rest of the sweat from my forehead, my eyebrows pull together. Rickard sneaks a final look-over me as he moves to place his maul down near the doorway. The way his worry knits his brows closer together at the center of his forehead makes my hands ball into fists, even as I pretend not to see his eyes shift over. While Saul sets the rest of our weapons away, Poppa wraps me up in his massive arm, pulling me up against his side. I consider pretending to only tolerate the embrace before breathing out a sigh and leaning into him, wrapping my arms around my dad in return.