❈ | 031 | Video

[fearcutsdeeperthanswords]

[With all these people graduating lately and all her wardens gone off, Arya has been doing a lot of thinking. She's wormed her way into the CES - she always seems to find a way - and is sitting against Nymeria, using the direwolf as a pillow. She's wearing a modern looking zipper hoodie over her usual threadbare attire; the zipper is open, but the hood is up, and on its top are two fuzzy, gray wolf ears. There's dirt on her face when she clicks the feed on, in a swoop from her cheek to her jaw; on the other side she's managed to accumulate a couple scratches. She doesn't seem to notice either.]

There's no one left from Westeros, besides me. Tyrion's gone. Viserys used to be here; I don't think there are a lot who remember him. Jon Snow was here, too. But he left.

[They all left is what she doesn't say out loud. She scratches at her jaw, somehow missing the dirt.]

I've been here a long time, though. I checked - it's two years, now. [She doesn't pause; she's already let that sink in.] Your worlds are all different from mine. You treat people like babies till they're old; you call them kids until they're eighteen, twenty. In Westeros, and Essos, and all over in my world - a girl is grown when she's flowered. [She makes a face, because it's a dumb euphemism, but it's ingrained.] My brother was a king when he was fifteen. He wasn't a boy, he had a beard and led men and killed his enemies. [And he died.

She pauses for a moment, looking up as a shadow passes over her, presumably a cloud.]

When I was littler, I wanted to know if I could build castles, or be a High Septon, or be a councilor to a king. He said I could marry a king, and my sons could be Septons and builders and knights and lords. Well I'm not getting married, and I'm not having sons, not ever.

Is that what it's like in your worlds, too? I don't mean, do they say no and you do it anyway, that's not any different. Are girls allowed to be rulers and builders and fighters where you all are from?

Comments

[indispensible]

Is.

[Which is also true. But also isn't. He will always be hers. But at the same time, he's just as dead as she is.]

[She won't say this anywhere Kelsier could see.]

Then . . . you need a balance.

[fearcutsdeeperthanswords]

I have a balance. [She thinks.]

...What would you suggest?

[indispensible]

Justice that accomplishes a goal. Violence to protect.

How do you fight?

[fearcutsdeeperthanswords]

With a sword.

With teeth and claw, if I have to.

[indispensible]

Do you want to learn more?

[fearcutsdeeperthanswords]

Yes. [All the time always from everyone. There are many good things to know, here.

[indispensible]

I can show you. I think maybe we're . . . not so different. Under everything.

[fearcutsdeeperthanswords]

What can you show me? [She will be the best student ever just watch.]

[indispensible]

How I fight.

[fearcutsdeeperthanswords]

But how do you fight?

[indispensible]

With daggers and swords and tooth and claw.

[fearcutsdeeperthanswords]

I've never used a dagger. [Except for those two times she killed someone but that wasn't fighting. Look at this smile, Vin, teach her.]

[indispensible]

[Oh it's murderously adorable.]

Tell me when. I'll take you to the CES. It's better to practice in the open.

[fearcutsdeeperthanswords]

Whenever. Nymeria can hunt and we can practice. I'm already here. [udek how excited she is]

[indispensible]

[After barely any thought at all, Vin decides whenever should mean now. She slips into the CTS and follows the sweep of the land until she finds Arya. Stopping several feet away, she eyes the girl cautiously, not that much taller than Arya herself. There are glass daggers tucked in her barely-loose sleeves, hilts only just visible.]

It's me.

[fearcutsdeeperthanswords]

[She tosses her communicator aside and rises when Nymeria gets up; she smells Vin before Arya sees her, so she's standing and ready when the other woman comes into view.

Though from her height, Arya wonders if she's just a girl, too. She's small.]

I'm Arya.

[indispensible]

My name is Vin.

[She doesn't introduce herself with a title. She never has. Titles are important to kings. She's something else.]

[Her eyes meet Nymeria's, then travel away. She abruptly misses TenSoon. He was always easy to talk to, even when he didn't want to be.]

[Pulling one of the daggers out of her sleeve, she holds it out hilt-first.]

Are you wearing any metal?

[fearcutsdeeperthanswords]

[It suits her; Arya has never cared for titles, either. All her life, she's been a Lady, but she's never felt like one. Her sister and mother were ladies, but not her.

At the question, she nods, putting one hand on the hilt of her sword - castle-forged steel - and lifting one unzippered side of her hoodie. She doesn't know what sort of metal that is, though she assumes it's steel or iron. She assumes most everything is.

But she reaches out anyway, wrapping her hand around the dagger's hilt, eyes flicking up toward Vin's face to make certain it's all right.]

[indispensible]

[She nods and lets go of the glass blade, pulling the other out of her sleeve and flipping it deftly so the hilt sits in her palm. Ten she Pulls lightly at the zipper, then the metal blade.]

Take them off. Just the dagger.

[fearcutsdeeperthanswords]

[The pull makes her hand tighten around Needle's hilt, and there's just a second of alarm - it was taken once, she'll never let it be taken again - but it stops, and she nods. Tugging the hoodie off, arms inside out, she tosses it down and then lays Needle on top of it. Nymeria sniffs at it idly, and Arya catches her big head between her hands, meeting her eyes for a moment. A second later, Nymeria runs off; she'll watch from the tree line for a while, unless she scents prey.

Metal gone, Arya turns to Vin, shifting the dagger between her hands before settling it in her left.]

[indispensible]

[Vin nods.]

It's not safe to wear metal in my world. The people who are like me can use it, like I just did, to move you to their will. And there are others like me here.

[This is not how Ham would have taught Arya, she knows. He would have spoken to her about brighter things first; he would have posed theoretical questions; he would have treated her with a little care, the way he treated Vin. But she knows that Arya is stronger than most care to acknowledge. She isn't a child. She is her own tool.]

So fight me with tooth and claw.

[This time she gives that as a verbal warning before she moves - before she flies, really, burning pewter for grace if no strength. She strikes once, intending to test and not damage much, though if the blow cuts Arya a little she won't be that bothered. She wants to see how the girl handles a dagger, if she moves as though she's holding a sword.]

[fearcutsdeeperthanswords]

[It's not the same as using Needle, but that's what she knows. She turns sideface, making herself a smaller target, holds the dagger firmly but loosely; it's a part of her arm. She remembers Syrio's lessons best of all her teachers.

When the strike comes, she moves, dances like he was teaching her, like she saw the bravos in the canals do; she sweeps her arm up, and blocks.

Fight me sounds like Syrio's strike me, so she doesn't stay still, she pushes in, stepping forward and trying to push Vin back with her free hand and the blocking knife.]

[indispensible]

[It is a dance, and she moves like a dancer, feet barely touching the ground to propel her forward. Her movements are light but loud, all the quiet stillness of her ordinary demeanor shattered in the joy of movement, of power, of understanding (which is not crucial, but helps - she knows it helps, thinks Arya is seeking it).]

[The potential for lethality is obvious in every step, every breath. Her eyes are bright as she dodges - though not by much. It makes her smile.]

Hold it closer.

[Her only piece of advice. The technique needs tweaking, not much else. Now she feints, steps left and right and around and forward, blade aimed for Arya's cheek.]

[fearcutsdeeperthanswords]

[She adjusts; this isn't Needle, it's a shorter reach, and she shouldn't be afraid to get in close. She's not afraid of anything. The feint is her favorite lesson, though, one of Syrio's earliest: she must not only look with her eyes, but see.

Arya's sloppy; her training did not last and has been sparse and graceless since. But she remembers the dancing that she loved, and she ducks under Vin's blade, stepping wide and almost stumbling, but putting herself out of immediate danger. Her eyes are wide and her pulse is going, but there's a smile on her face.

Closer.

She moves in again, thrusts like a sword for Vin's belly.]

[indispensible]

[Vin twists, dodges. But not quite enough.]

[This is, of course, deliberate. The bruise Stark left her is long since faded, but just as that didn't faze her, so the prospect of a knife in her gut is nothing at all. Pain isn't something she fears anymore. It's a weapon Camon had over her, but Camon is dead, dead, dead, and now - pain is a roadblock. An inconvenience. Not an enemy.]

[So she twists enough that the dagger, when it hits her, only cuts skin and the barest hint of muscle. It bleeds, and it hurts, but she's had worse - much (Marsh, Zane, Ruin) - and pewter keeps her going so that, while Arya's blade is pulling away from her skin, she can whip snake-quick, grab her wrist, and twist her around, arm around her neck, blade to her jugular.]

[Her voice is quiet; she's completely still again, though wary.]

Not everyone fears death.

Again?