Winter Wildflowers

Chapter 9

Day 70

Ofelia wasn't angry when a sword was thrown her way. She stared at it for a moment but found herself void of the spirit she'd clutched to for so long. She didn't care to kill the mysterious moon soldier today, not when his beautiful sword lay thrown to the snow. Its handle was so intricately carved, spindly vines, columns, a lion. She had used it so carelessly yesterday, yet now it was like looking at a newborn child.
At her lack of action, Knightley's feet came into view. Ofelia inspected his muddy sabatons before lifting her eyes to his face.
He was handsome, she admitted. Maybe amongst her anger and hatred of him he hadn't appeared so, but now that she was calm, she truly noticed the striking blue of his eyes. His facial scar, though dramatic, seemed comely on his face, intriguing at worst. His brows were dark, like his eyelashes, and his jaw was set firm, clearly defined against his neck. Ofelia lowered her eyes.
Knightley held his gaze, gesturing again to the sword, "Pick it up."
Ofelia sighed. Why should she spar? What point did it serve?
"Girl. Pick it up.", Knightley said again, his words a firm commandment.
Ofelia cleared her throat before reaching for it, gathering herself up as she did.
Knightley frowned, but readied his sword, "You're attacking. Go."
Ofelia, flicked her eyes between Knightley and the sword for moment, before sighing and advancing on him. First, a deflected blow to the neck, then, a circular deflect from the side, followed by another weak attack and a hearty shove in return.
Ofelia fell to the ground, her sword sinking into the snow a little way away.
"What's wrong with you?", Knightley grumbled, sheathing his sword.
Ofelia moved to a sitting position, only so that she could stare at her hands again.
The air between them silenced, "Ah.", Knightley breathed, maintaining his distance.
In truth, it was Knightley's doing that Ofelia was a man slayer. He'd had the choice to help her, an easy decision, yet he'd forced her to defend herself with the highly likely risk of her passing. The man's blood that should've been Knightley's now stained Ofelia's hands, gathered in her nailbeds, streaked along her palms, and the memory which should've been cradling him to sleep, shadowed Ofelia like an ill-intentioned ghost.
Yet, she found no anger within.
"Rest your thoughts, Ofelia. You're to slay many more.", He assured, his words honest.
Ofelia shook her head, unable to place her hands down. Honesty, the bare truth. She ached for nothing more after being isolated with her biased, inexperienced thoughts. It should have been against her to confide in such a person, but her heart spilled out before she could steady it, "I... feel as if no one relates to me.", She shared, frowning, "I've heard that killing a man rips one to shreds, yet...", she sighed, cutting off her sentence.
Knightley clicked his tongue before nearing Ofelia, his armour chiming as he did, "You are ripped apart, young girl,", He clarified as he came into view, "Even if you cannot see it."
Ofelia frowned. That was not something that she wanted to hear.
"But you will become greater because of his sacrifice.", he continued, stopping by her side.
Ofelia nodded, "... You really believe me to have potential.", she muttered.
"I've believe you to be adaptive...", he clarified, "As you have proved."
Ofelia finally broke her trance in her hands, looking up to him. She studied his face, his stern eye earnest. Slowly, she nodded.
"Come, then,", Knightley clapped, airing his sword, "I want you to attack me."

It was different. Ofelia didn't attack Knightley with broken rage, nor with angry, emotional jabs, instead with each day she more grew calculated.
And she began to thrive because of it.
Ofelia's mindset changed. Constantly did she criticize her form, her technique, so much so that when Knightley belittled her it only confirmed her thoughts, offering a constructive outsider's opinion. Her anger had subsided, what else was she to do but seek the satisfaction of grinding her sword against another's? The days had passed where Ofelia seethed in anger toward Knightley and fleeting were the days where her father's death weighed on her heart. And so, her motivations were no longer to slay Knightley in cold blood, nor to avenge her father with a great strike. Those goals needed fuel; a fuel Ofelia no longer possessed. Now were the days that Ofelia wielded Knightley's second sword by her side, a constant hand over it as she walked, a constant handling of it when she stopped.
A month passed of this, then another. Knightley sparred with her every dusk, and Ofelia hopelessly lost to his every move. She was nothing compared to him, it ever more apparent, yet somehow it pushed her more. It was all she would let herself think about, swords, fighting, and war. Swords, fighting and war. Nothing else.
But in the spare moments of silence she endured before sleep, she unwillingly pondered over who she was, and where she intended to go. But for such big questions, she lacked the answers. She didn't know who she was and had no ambitions to lead her step. Her sword had become her only companion, and her enemy her only confidante.