Work Text:
FFXIV Writing Challenge - September 2024
Day 11: Quarry
Side sweep into downward swing. Overhead attack. Ready position. Breathe. Forward lunge. Twist and swipe. Backstep into parry. Ready position.
Regina’s fingers ache. Sweat soaks deep into the creases of her skin and the wraps of leather against her fingers. Hair peeks at the top of her vision, purple strands stuck to her forehead. She shakes her head to loosen them.
Knee kick. Ready position. Block then backstep. Upward swing. Spin to counterbalance. Side sweep into downward swing. Overhead attack.
Dull. Repetitive. Try something new. That’s what he would say, as she stares blankly ahead. The striking dummy before her is a blur of dark bark amongst scars of pale, oaken flesh. There are probably splinters all across the grass by her feet, ready to pierce and bury. She doesn’t care.
Forward lunge. Twist in then swipe. Backstep into parry. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
You’re getting frustrated , he would say. Being angry solves nothing, being deprecating slows progress.
“Shut up,” she mumbles, starting again. Side sweep into downward swing.
She can almost free the leaves against her, kissing her cheeks as she peeked between bushes. With a steady presence right beside her, his arrow drawn and eyes sharp. He would glance up and down at her form.
Be patient. Even if you lose this one, another opportunity will appear.
Growling, she kicks at the dummy. It rattles within its metal plinth, with an echoing gong. “I cannot make a mistake.” Too many people rely on her now.
Mistakes help us learn. He’d reach for her shoulder, to steady her shaky arms.
A raging drum beats against her ribs, threatening to escape. She ignores it. The Final Days are coming, following them like a starved predator. She must stop its hunt before blood is spilled. She will not stop. Grasping the claymore tighter, she begins again. Overhead attack, upward swing--
The weight falls too far, and her arms give way. She staggers past the striking dummy, claymore abandoned in the dirt. Wooden grain and grass bury into her arms as Regina hits the ground, before she rolls to face upwards. A dark, cloudless sky greets her.
Take the shot, little sparrow. It’s okay to miss.
“Fuck you,” she hisses at the sky. The stars blink back, silent as ever.
Perhaps the bow isn’t your calling , he said. With a gentle guiding hand and a welcome smile, he’ll pat her back. It’s okay, don’t cry. We’ll keep trying. I’ll help you find your calling, Regina.
“I don’t know what to do,” Regina whispers, lips trembling. Green eyes search the firmament, yearning for a flicker or flash of light. The sky remains steadfast, oblivious to her heartache. “I miss you.”
Thanks, Meteor, she would say back to him, with a toothy grin. I know I can always count on you.