[Arya's eyes widen as the blade sinks in. She can feel it, the moment glass parts skin; it's not a new feeling, and she's not afraid of it, not afraid of hurting. She's afraid of healing, because she doesn't know how. There's a heartbeat where she considers fleeing, slipping into Nymeria's skin and disappearing, but she's no craven.
She's no craven.
She's practically still when Vin reacts, and suddenly there's a knife to her throat and her arm is twisting. She drops her knife, right hand automatically reaching up for Vin's wrist, and she's half shifted her weight to stomp on a foot when the woman speaks again. She's not in danger here. It's just practice.
What do we say to the god of death?]
Not today, [she whispers, but it's not an answer to the question. She nods instead, careful of the glass edge, and tilts her head to try and get a look at Vin.]
no subject
She's no craven.
She's practically still when Vin reacts, and suddenly there's a knife to her throat and her arm is twisting. She drops her knife, right hand automatically reaching up for Vin's wrist, and she's half shifted her weight to stomp on a foot when the woman speaks again. She's not in danger here. It's just practice.
What do we say to the god of death?]
Not today, [she whispers, but it's not an answer to the question. She nods instead, careful of the glass edge, and tilts her head to try and get a look at Vin.]
Doesn't it hurt?