Today I'm a king on the wheel Still a slave to the wheel But this time around I'm smiling. Keep me cautious, keep me safe, Just in case there's a chance I can leave this Wheel behind me.

— Splashdown; Karma Slave



—



I missed the sunrise this morning, twice in one week. I punished myself by training an extra two hours today, listening to the mantra in the back of my mind: training for what? My days are over and my nights are numbered in mouthfuls of whiskey. But there's something so undeniably comfortable about the weight of a sword in my hand, an extension of myself; old man O'rai used to call it my long left arm, but it's more than that. It's my spine. It's my blood.

Old leather creaks against chainmail; the arch of my sword runs high against unseen enemies, dully reflecting the winter light. Though I can't see it, I can feel the weight of House Kesina's seal on my armor above my left breast, House Greene on my right: the spear-bearing hawk against the lone buck, in endless juxtaposition. I don't doubt who would win. I've seen enough venison on old man O'rai's plate, the heads of does staring at him from the walls.

I'm no doe, but I've felt the spear jutting against my back since the day I took my vows.

Honor, loyalty, fealty, servitude. Thrust, parry, riposte. I've read a lot of different knight's tenants since I left, and Kesina's is the only one I've found that starts with these four — their most important. Maybe that's why they used to bind their knight's for life, for King and country. Justice, faith, and hope are the last. The irony doesn't escape me. I've miscalculated a step and twisted too low; I can feel the muscles pulling in a way that's not right, but I don't stop. He wouldn't have stopped either, after all.

The Solstice is coming. My skin is running hot, like a fever that can't be restrained. The man I've met here, Mish'Cael, seems to enjoy it, but the point isn't pleasure; it's a warning, a calm before the quake. I'll be lucky if I can crawl out of bed by mid-week. Every year it gets a little bit worse, a little bit closer to taking Death's bony hand and giving him my name. Hello, my name is Lady Knight Eleanor of Greene, but you already knew that.

It's when I go in for the killing blow on my invisible enemy that I feel my body tighten and pain pulse down my spine. The ink runs volcanic and reaches inside me, curling its hands around all the vital parts; my body begins to seize and I drop my sword. Well, fuck.

By the time my gloved hand reaches my mouth, I'm already hacking up bright red blood against my bracer. My other hand is groping for the nearest surface to lean on, which happens to be an oak that's just beginning to bud fresh for the spring. It's early. My mind focuses on the contours of tree and branch while my body continues to revolt against itself. My hair is sticking to my skin with sweat, and I'm not sure if it's sickness or fate.

The moment passes. It's the first of many that will run the course of my week. The breath I'm grasping for is wet with my own blood as I wipe my hand against the remnants of the snow on the ground, leaving it stained. It's now, for some inexplicable reason, that I recall it's my birthday tomorrow.

I reach and grope for the hilt of my sword, using it and the tree to lever myself to my feet. Maybe I'll skip training tomorrow. It's a good present. But for now, there's still an enemy unslain. I pull up into stance, feeling the natural weight of my sword. Honor, loyalty, fealty, servitude. Thrust, parry, riposte. I begin again.

I want a girl who gets up early I want a girl who stays up late I want a girl with uninterrupted prosperity Who used a machete to cut through red tape With fingernails that shine like justice And a voice that is dark like tinted glass

She is fast and thorough And sharp as a tack She's touring the facility And picking up slack

- CAKE; Short Skirt/Long Jacket

—

His right hook is stronger than I remember.

I'm thinking about how I never excelled in hand-to-hand while I feel my jaw throb up the line of my skull; I can hear Taine's voice lecturing me about my technique in the ringing of my ears. I'm thinking about the man closing the distance between us and how much he's changed. Nok, as he's called now, is five years my elder, a man of infamy back in Kesina. They started calling him Nok after he slew Tre'noka, the last dragon who fought against House Kesina back in the War of Thrones. He lost an eye in that fight, but he became the right hand of the crown. Guess being the right hand has given his punch some practice.

He's lifting his sword as he walks back toward me again. Nok's nearly a full head taller than me and the bastard fights as dirty as a weasel, but it works well for him. I'm out of shape. I get enough time to recover and meet his blade as he tries to use brute force to crush me — it's not an uncommon tactic against him. For some reason, everyone assumes I haven't dealt with it before. My head is throbbing, but thankfully the swordplay comes naturally: I turn, pulling the pressure of his blade back and around toward the alley wall. I earn another moment to recover.

Or I could just be a mouthy bitch. "Don't you have better things to do then House Kesina's dirty work" Or have they finally put the old ass to pasture?"

I can feel the anger boiling from where I stand some feet away. I hit that one on the mark, apparently. When he turns to face me and I meet his only good eye, it occurs to me that he's more serious about this than I thought. I assumed I could just convince him to go back — but now I'm seeing that he's truly here to bring me back to the kingdom, dead or alive.

I don't understand the importance, but I don't have time to consider it either. "Cocky bitch," he snarls. "I'm going to cut your tits off and hand them to the old man on a silver plate." He's charging at me again, but his anger is making him more careful; Nok doesn't make the same mistake twice. I'm going to have to find a new one to take advantage of.

The clang of steel on steel radiates up my arm, makes me feel alive. His sword is marked with an etched cobra, the sigil of House Trell, and parries my much plainer sword with an equal mix of speed and strength. He locks his blade with mine and leans in to try pounding his fist into my jaw again — but if he can play dirty, so can I and that dagger tucked into his belt looks awfully sharp.

His punch clocks me on the side of my temple, but my free hand is already busy pulling the dagger free and jamming it where the shoulder and chest connect, where the armor lies weakest. His pained grunt is disturbingly satisfying.

When Nok's blade releases mine, I'm fighting the beginnings of a concussion while I push forward. I take advantage of his pain and his blind side to thrust my sword up toward his throat.

My ears are ringing again. I'm thinking about how this isn't the first time I've seen one of my knight-brothers impaled on my blade; I'm thinking about when Nok and I first met, back when he was still called Thomas, running circuits from Kesina to Paldo. I've already fit two major arteries from the dagger and the sword — it's only a matter of time, but I keep him company while he begins to die. You can see it in his eye: he accepts it, almost wants it.

"Eleanor," he wheezes from his ruined throat as his body slides down the alley wall.

"Nok." I move toward his leaking body, my sword still dirty with his blood.

"Fuck you." Those are his dying words; I see his soul leave. Soon the in that crawls across his back will begin to dispose of Nok's body to save it from worse fates like necromancers or strange hookers.

It's been a long time since I've killed a man, much less one of my own. "May the god-king grant you peace," I murmur to him automatically as his eyes begin to glaze over with emptiness. I reach with my own bloody fingers and close them.

I need a drink.

Please forget the words that I just blurted out, it wasn't me, it was my strange and creeping doubt, it keeps rattling my cage. And there's nothing in this world will keep it down,

and even though I might, even though I try, I can't. Even though I might, even though I try, I can't.

Soon your things that keep, that keep me underground, so many words that I, that I can never find. If you give up on me now, I'll be gutted like I've never been before.

Radiohead; I Can't

—-

I don't know what I'm doing with my life any more, or what?s left of it.

I spend my days with a sword in my hand, but the reasons aren't the same; I spend my evenings in a bar with more hormones than alcohol and I numb myself to it; I spend my midnights whispering secrets to a blue-skinned man after we've spent our lust on the bedsheets. I told Reap he's what I need right now, but I think he misunderstood my meaning. It isn't just the physicality of it — it's that he's walked my path before. It's what he sees and knows without asking and doesn't know, but let's me tell him in my own time. It's what?s not been said more than what has been. It's the sound of his voice and the way it feels on my skin when he speaks against my scars like he's talking to old dreams, old lives. And he is.

Where am I going", I ask myself. Where am I"

The streets are empty tonight by the time I leave the inn, caught in the awkward spot between midnight and morning where the world is lulled into a sense of false-rest. I'm drunk on vodka, beer, and my own nostalgia and everything feels like a strange dream. Reap's questions, his subtle suggestions, they've driven home the nail that's been biting at my mind, even if that's not what he intended. It's not from his mouth that I expected it, but he's surprised me more than he'll ever know tonight. I'm glad someone said it, though. That woman, the reed of a thing I've seen around — she said she could smell it on me. Like she was discussing the weather. Guilt that reeks like a second skin.

It won't ever leave me, I think. What's been driven into me. The people who trained me and bore me are wrong, but the base concepts — they aren't wrong. They can't be, but I'm not sure where the balance is any more. Where do I draw the line between morality and myself and let it stop controlling me?

The streets are still empty. I can see the sun coming up past the Marketplace, but part of me still feels hollow and out of place. Somewhere there's a bed waiting for me, with or without my lover, and it's calling to me. I turn on my heel and finally decide to answer it.

Gods help me.