Her father was watching her again.
Luna shifted slightly, her back rubbing against the wood she sat on in the scratchy, itchy way that she liked. Her head was set straight on her familiar branch, in her familiar tree, as she stared lazily up at the small peek of the sky she could see through the gap in the leaves.
It was bright right now, unfortunately, and what was even worse was that she still couldn't see any clouds. There were hardly ever any clouds, and certainly, when they did appear, they were never as amazingly vast as they were in her dreams. Never so fluffy and white. Never as close, or tangible. Never as real.
Nothing was ever as real as it was in her dreams.
Her ear perked to the noise of her father shuffling quietly far below her; the sound unmistakable after as many times they had been in this scenario. He'd been there for some lengthy amount of time, but he wouldn't ever say anything to her, of course. The undue pressure would be 'guilty' for him. It wouldn't be 'right,' he'd say: 'to disturb her.'
He'd just... wait. For lines, if need be.
Luna frowned, purely to herself.
She so wanted to tell him to suck it up. She wanted to tell him to order her down from the tree. She wanted him to yell; to finally tell her off for being so lazy, for once.
She'd tell her sister of her frustration later, and her sister would, with that knowing tone of hers, tell her to be patient with the stallion. That their father only wanted to be kind, and there was nothing wrong with kindness, or with the way he loved them. And he did, she would insist. As she often did.
Luna sighed; closing her eyes, and imagining for a moment the possibility of just drifting off. The sleepy temptation was there, on several very tempting levels. If she slept, her father would either go away, sit there like a lump for half a pot, or take charge for once. Any option would serve the sodded milksop right.
And... if she slept... she would dream.
If she dreamt... she could live.
There's nothing wrong with kindness.
Luna's eyes drifted open, and she murmured discontentedly as the sky stayed bright. She always did prefer the dark; even for training. The darkness didn't throw her off so much, but more than that: it was less unnerving. Less of her for ponies to see when she messed up.
She let momentum do most of the work as she less jumped and more fell off the edge of the branch. She dropped, maybe a little listlessly, for a boring moment of spinning green before her wings folded open and caught her on the air. Barely any effort as she glided in easy, looping circles around the tree, until she was coming to a landing for her father's waiting smile.
She tried not to frown.
Like anypony had ever seen her to begin with.
She didn't know if the other half of the family knew what they did, out here.
It certainly wasn't as though she'd purposefully obscured it, she had just- Okay, maybe she had lied to Celestia on purpose, but she'd had good reason!
She didn't want her sister butting her dumb head into one of the few things she had to herself. That was a very good reason.
A quiet grove: ground well-tread and cleared to worn, even dirt. Steady breathing, and the mid-moment sounds of hard exertion.
Luna swept towards her target with a powerful flap of her wings; the air under her shifting for her primed feathers and lifting her forward onto her back hooves as her body stretched. Her advance slowed as she hit the ground hard on two hooves, though she cringed as her upright balance felt immediately off.
It was always hard to stand on two hooves, and even harder still for any kind of comfortable movement.
But she'd been trained; maybe even well enough. Her muscles had long known the uncomfortable position, and she'd more or less forced it to be natural at this point. She knew by instinct how to follow through to prevent a fall.
The short, stone knife held backwards in the crook of her hoof sung through the air as she leaned in, and purposefully danced unsteadily on one hoof. Her spinning momentum, half edged on completely falling, carried her around into a full circle that ended where she'd began: with the knife slotting a shallow gash across the short, scarred pole.
The dizzy spin was quickly petering off even as the hollow noise wrung small satisfaction out of her chest; her hoof slipping further and further off grip as she began to lean unsteadily forward. The meeting of the ground and her face becoming a very real reality that she was not keen on.
One wing caught the air; one wing flapped, hard.
The uneven force sent her spinning away into the air, opposite from the rubbed, wooden training pole. Her head tilted with dizziness as she came to a mid-air stop, but she simply squeezed her eyes shut for one hard moment to just as soon leave her vision clear and focused on her immobile enemy.
One more lengthy scratch along its face; to add to the many that it already sported. It wouldn't be too much longer before her father would have to fetch a new one.
She held her position; comfortable distance away from the extremely scarred trunk, and hovering with clear intent on the knife held to her front. Never falter until the ease. Never waver, until she was sure her enemy lay dead.
This was combat.
"Good approach, and clever! Try to keep your balance a little better, though, and be a bit tighter on your retreat. You shouldn't keep your back to your opponent for so long."
She frowned deeply as the call from behind her signaled an ease. The ready tension in her shoulders abated as she calmed, and her open hooves settled on the ground, though her wings kept open.
She'd messed up. Her approach wasn't fine, because she'd come in far too fast. Her wings hadn't kept the proper angle to bleed and dam her speed. That was why her initial balance had been wrong. It didn't matter how she'd made up for it: she'd still made a mistake.
Why wouldn't he just reprimand her?
Do you believe you deserve it?
Her gaze fell to the knife in her hoof, and her eyes narrowed as her teeth ground. Small, and weak. Made by her own hoof: an aching process of dragging it over and over against another half-smoothed hunk of stone. Entire lines of listening to groaning, scraping sounds, and everything she made still seemed so dull.
Of course she deserved it.
Her father had shown her how, when she was very little. She could still remember: the one he'd made as a demonstration was so elegant. It was sturdy; a thick, strong thing. Looking so much like it hadn't just been ground from two barely different hunks of stone.
He'd done it effortlessly; talking endlessly to her the whole way through. How best to angle the strokes, and what flaws should be ground out. What imperfections to keep for an even weighting, how to smooth the handle for a good grip, how to temper the stone to keep its cutting edge without sacrificing durability; it was everything he'd known, passed to her.
She'd watched, and listened: enrapt. Every move burned into her memory and every sound labeled as essential. So sure in her mind that expertise was gained through study and observation, and that she was certain to have all the gained skill she would need when her time came. Mastery could be taught, and she would be its student.
And then she'd tried, and her half-thinned, uneven slab of rock had snapped and crumbled to dust.
And still, one out of every four knives she made would shatter on impact.
And still, her father would only laugh, and tell her that was the way of things.
Like he'd ever demonstrated failure to her.
You know that's not true.
"-na? Luna? Honey?"
She started, suddenly, as her father's voice registered. She looked up from her death grip on her knife: her father standing to her side, and so much closer than he'd been before. Staring at her: concern clear on his face.
She blinked, and let her head drop to hide the way her eyes narrowed. "Sorry," she muttered, shaking her head to dislodge the unruly, lingering clouds of anger. "We became distracted."
Her father chuckled, and she could tell without looking that he was smiling at her. Not mad. Not even chiding. "It's alright, sweetheart. We all get lost, sometimes."
She grimaced in a moment of intense, flushed heat, before she swallowed the expression and the hot feeling in her throat back down. Her eyes rose; an expectedly sullen look on her face as her father smiled softly at her.
Thoughts of smacking the expression away, if only to incite backlash. She pushed them down.
He gestured his hoof towards her, and her eyes focused on the knife held in its crook. Unmistakably crude and noticeably jagged. So obviously one of hers.
"Why don't you try again, with both this time? I know you're able," he murmured. Reassuringly. As if she needed the reassurance. As if she deserved it. As if he couldn't just- for once-
She blinked, and the red haze swept away. So easily. So practiced. She took the second knife offered to her in the same hoof without a word, and did her best to look her father in the eyes. If only for a glance. Just to calm down.
Soft, gentle eyes. Expectant and easy. Quiet and respectful. Understanding and loving.
Why do you deny him?
She looked away, and let her wings catch and bring her into the air with a flap. She turned between flaps as the second knife fell into her free hoof, and her grip on both weapons loosed, and reversed to blade-out.
All the while trying to keep a placid expression on her madly twitching face.
Ignore the empty feeling. Ignore it. Focus instead on the rising adrenaline. The expanding sense of expectant combat. Action. Movement.
This was her thing. It made her feel good. It made her feel right, like nothing else did.
She had training to do; there was no reason to be... freaking out over her father. Again. It never solved anything, it just made her mad. Made it hard to focus. Made it hard to think.
Yet still you think.
Okay, she wasn't dreaming- and she could use some quiet!
Their voice quieted, and the soft presence she felt in the very bottom of her skull faded away.
There was just... too much in her head, right now. No hard feelings, alright?
Luna's head dropped as she listened to the sound of her father trotting away, probably looking back over his shoulder with a troubled stare. Wondering why his daughter would act so coldly. Stay so distant, when all he did was love her.
What had ever happened to sweet little Luna?
Her jaw tightened, and her hooves raised into ready position between flaps. Keep a strong grip, but stay fluid. Close to the body, but loose enough to sweep in broad motions. Like an old flail; length limp and loose, but only as a conduit for the deadly head.
Nothing wrong in the heat of battle, or its facsimile. Nothing off, or worrying. Nothing weird, or confusing. No inappropriate voices making her doubt. Just action.
There was no call from her father, even as she waited for it. This long without it: she knew what that meant. This was on her. He did this sometimes, as a way of testing initiative. Usually he warned her beforehoof, but...
It was fine; she was plenty capable of starting her own fights. She could just... go.
Anytime now. She could just... start.
Just... start.
Go.
What are you waiting for?
She didn't know what she was waiting for.
The active tension in her shoulders bunched in a long moment of indecision, before she finally loosed herself towards the pole in one, great flap. So great, in truth: it carried her over the short ground far more than she'd expected, and she was already angling her wings up for a landing before she'd finished blinking.
The crest of her wings raised and pitched, and she felt her bones creak from the pressure as her draft was walled: leaving her speed almost completely caught in that one moment. She'd tried to stop too fast, and she'd been too successful.
Her chest compressed from her stomach to her back.
It hurt.
Her next breath was an excited, breathy gasp.
The ground met her hooves softer than it should've, but it left her balance completely sound as she drew struggling breath from her aching chest. One, two, and she was raising her knives with an excited grin.
Fighting with one knife was, however imprecise, relatively easy. It was essentially a game of cat and mouse, more than any other style of fighting was. It completely involved getting as close as was safe, striking, then simply getting away. There were few caveats besides whatever any huge, incredible caveats that combat situations would naturally throw in.
It was the fighting style of one who could move quickly, and take little. There were few ways to avoid wounds besides simple evasion; as even if one had the strength and speed to parry with a knife, it left so few opportunities for follow-through that it would just be far more effective in the end to fight with any heavier weapon.
Fighting with two knives was far different.
Luna swept out with her right hoof in a quick jab, scoring one shallow, half-puncture that broke shortly along the pole's side. She returned to position; then jabbed again: scoring an identical mark along its adjacent side. Her ever-moving hooves kept her light as she crouched in a moment, then hopped up; her aggressing knife following her as a long scratch running up that created an upside-down 'V' as she fell.
She drew as deep a breath as she could manage as she landed from her short hop, before her knife flashed out to strike against the low expanse of the scarred pole; standing and letting her wings drag her an inch away as her hoof returned to her.
Then, she stepped forward, and let her unused hoof lash out to drag a long score sideways from her center.
A pony with one knife was, regardless of their state of mind, fighting with fear. They wanted to keep contact with their opponent to an absolute minimum. They did not want to trade blows which would significantly impact their agility, because a pony fighting with a knife was, in many cases, relying heavily on their superior agility.
They got in, then got out.
A pony with two knives could not, at any cost, allow themselves to fight with any similarity.
It was a fighting style distinctly rooted in staying distinctly rooted. They could have no fear except for what they could use. They needed to stay close, and just attack. Never getting too far away at any time, for the fear of missing any quick opening.
Because a battle fought with two knives was one meant to last for a very short time.
Don't run. Don't let up. Keep attacking. Find your opening, and stay there.
Have the courage to stand tall, and attack!
Luna danced back; ducking under an imaginary swing as one of her knives sliced through an unprotected hock. Hard, wooden flesh rung hollow, and she was already moving sideways to dodge an anticipated downward swing.
Predict your opponent's moves, and do whatever you can to punish and disrupt them.
Luna imagined a shield held in a left hoof; its hard edge thrust toward her in a rough bash. She barely swept along its side; likely taking a nasty bruise as she stepped towards her opponent's chest, and the sword raised to slash at her. Her breath mantled and her knees nearly doubled as the knife kept close to her breast intercepted, and impacted the swing sideways; her body taking the brunt, but safely diverting its edge along her knife.
Staring forward, and close enough to her aggressor now to smell the phantom scent of sweat: her other knife flew blindly to draw a long gash against wood; rending out into the air where a shield-bearing hoof might've been. An echoed cry of pain deafened her, and the moment allowed her to slip away from reach.
Fighting with knives was a last-ditch effort, at any time. It was a combatant that put their life on the line in as many ways as possible, all to get as close as they could, to deal as much damage as was possible. If the fight lasted for any longer than was absolutely necessary, then it was time spent in extreme danger.
Every motion an opportunity to make them bleed. Every step drips away from becoming a misstep.
It was rough. Every moment was lived in the next three, hoping that the opponent wouldn't get wise. If even a single thing went wrong...
Her opponent was hobbled now, barely keeping their shield up even as bravely as they brandished their weapon. A fool. In a real combat situation, a smart opponent would look for an opportunity to retreat. Bravery was one thing, but it was no brave thing to fight with a lame hoof.
Blood dripped, and they seethed. Luna moved.
It was a safe approach on their weakened left, though their shaking shield raised for protection. No chance they could bash with that blooded hoof, all it did was blind them; covering her from sight as she feinted, ducked low, and danced to her left; skidding into their sight as they looked down at her in surprise.
A useless shield, and sword steady but so sorrowfully slow.
Luna's stance widened with force as she drew a deep breath from her gut, and her eyes bulged with the effort as she raised herself up as powerfully as she could manage. Her knives went unbloodied as the hard sides of her hooves instead crashed with a horrible thud against the flat edge of the blade, and the ill-kept shield.
It was an imaginary ache and shaking jitter that resonated up into her jaw, though the satisfaction she felt was very real as her opponent's arms were knocked out of balance, and they staggered back. Weakened, and primed.
Luna's next breath was quick as she coiled in on herself, low to the ground as her grip on both knives reversed; holding them blade-in as her hooves crossed, and drug a shallow line in the dirt. She watched, and waited in silent drips for the opportune moment; the one, single best time to act.
Tottering back and nearly falling; when to take advantage?
The tension in every muscle of her shoulders and legs was almost unbearable, and she thought for a heart-stopping moment that it would boil over, and she'd simply collapse.
The shield slipped, and fell from their grasp; their hooves stomping heavily as they doubled forward. Her chance.
All of the tearing, painful tension she'd forced herself to bottle released in one glorious moment of spinning momentum. Her hooves kicked off in opposite directions, and she let out a ferocious cry of rage as the movement sent her into a flurry of dizzy forward motion. Uncontrollable but for what she'd already managed to do, and what she'd set herself in place for.
Everything slowed, and she watched in a strange moment of cold, quiet reverence as one swinging knife tore a deep red gash across the great length of her opponent's chest. She made one half turn, and she watched from the opposite side as the other knife flew to match its sister right above.
The knife impacted flesh, and spongy tissue turned to wooden steel as the weapon snapped in uneven half from a quarter length down the point of impact.
And then, her wings pitched, and caught her.
She flew away, still spinning; though her turning body and flapping wings were quickly working to stop her sideways momentum. It was still a long moment before she came to a halt, though the world around her failed to match her change; everything a blur as her eyes intently fixed on where she was sure her fallen foe lay.
Slowly did the world come to a stop, and she was treated to a view of the solitary wooden pole sporting a myriad assortment of holes and scratches. Her stinging eyes immediately sought and found a particularly long gash, right where a standing pony's chest would lie.
And right above it, beginning at exactly the same, parallel point: a small, shallow pock-mark.
Not a guaranteed death blow.
Luna's back hooves made contact with the ground, but only solitary for as long as it took her to throw the shattered grip in her hoof to the ground; a cry of pure anger on her lips that died as she bit it off in a frustrated snarl.
She glared heatedly at the pulsing dirt as her teeth ground together, and the other knife she held also found itself unceremoniously thrown to the side. She stamped her hoof once, then twice as the first failed to make her feel any better.
She'd failed. She got cocky, and failed. She'd left herself open only as she was supposed to when the fight was won, and she'd failed to finish it.
She'd be dead.
A hoof rested on her shoulder, and she immediately shrugged it off. It came back just as quickly, and her ears laid to her head as though the subtle muffle would somehow block the words that would inevitably come next.
"That was very good, Luna. You were-"
Hot anger flared in her chest as she violently threw her shoulder back, knocking the hoof away as she stamped her own hoof back down; throwing her head to the side. "That was not good! I- We did not finish it!"
Her eyes flicked up, then down to the sad sight of her stub of a dagger. She bared her teeth, and kicked it away with all the force she could muster; sending the sorry thing off into a nearby bush. If she could, she'd set the bush on fire.
She settled instead for turning roughly to her father, staring at her with wide eyes.
Wide, sad eyes.
Her head dropped, and she stomped her hoof, once. One, hard stomp was all she allowed herself, and she reveled in the resonant feeling as she just... seethed.
Each breath in burned her mouth, and each breath out threatened to end in a pitched whimper. Over and over, as the endless feelings choking her throat warred inside her. Sharp pangs of regret and guilt; hard throbs of rage and resentment.
But her father was watching. Watching, with his sad eyes. Wondering what he'd done to make his daughter this way.
What do you believe?
They were back; how wonderful.
It wasn't a long transformation that turned the fire in her breast to cold, lifeless coal. It was almost in a few scant moments; the raging inferno just hardened, and dropped like a dead pit.
And she was left with it.
The last smoky breath coming off the cinders of her anger was temperate, and it allowed her to look up at her father with little shame. His eyes were as soft, gentle and sad as she'd imagined they were, and the sight nearly restoked the fire.
She pushed the anger that came so naturally into a tiny little corner of her mind, and appeased what remained of it by narrowing her eyes. "...We failed." Her voice was even, perhaps to a fault, as her head dipped again, and she stared darkly at her father's hooves. "If we had made such an error in combat, we would have died."
Her father took a breath, and her head whipped up. "Do not deny it!" She bit down on her lip as her father was left gaping open-mouthed at her, before he slowly shut his mouth. Her head lowered, and she stared at him just under the edge of her twitching eyes. "I should have been better. I should have been-"
Her breath caught, and she cringed back as her teeth accidently broke the skin, and she tasted blood. She turned away, not even bothering to hide that she was trying to hide an angry flush on her face.
She'd not used the greater 'we.'
She sucked relentlessly on her bloody lip as her father sighed behind her. She tried in vain to turn further away as his hoof came to rest on her shoulder again, but it accomplished little besides uncomfortably shifting the weight onto a bone.
"Luna, look at me."
It was hardly a command. It was soft, and slightly pleading. Like it always was. It never held a hard undercurrent, in loving spite of its gentle tone. It never implied a greater purpose behind the harsh words, because they were never harsh. There was never any light threat of retribution as consequence. There was never a fear of consequence at all.
He would never just be honest with her.
But still, she turned: lip in her mouth and her face hard.
Her father, still holding her shoulder, smiled at her, and she nearly bit back down. She abstained, barely; though hearing his voice made it a very fine line.
So calm. So gentle. "Luna... I'm not going to tell you that you messed up, because I know you've already told yourself that."
Of course he wasn't going to rebuke her. Of course he wasn't. Hearing it said out loud took nearly all the strength out of her, for the draining disappointment she felt. She'd already known, of course, but there had been some, small hope...
She shook her head, and tried to look petulantly at the ground. But then, a weight caught her head, and forced her chin up.
Her father was sat down now, and she could see beside her view of his hoof under her chin that he held a box in his lap. A pretty, dark wood box. Her eyes only caught on it for a moment before her father's voice drew her attention back to his face.
"Luna, you must know that you hardly failed? You may not have been entirely perfect, but expecting you to be perfect is cruel, and I don't ever want to put that on you." His hoof fell away from her chin, and she was left weightless for a moment before she threw her head to the side with an angry scoff.
But still, she watched out of the corner of her eye as his hoof came to rest on the box he held.
"I think you did wonderfully, as you always do, my little Luna. And... I think you passed with flying colors."