Ground Down

Chapter 59

When she had been five years old, nearly six, Gustus had taught her how to ride. On a disgruntled old pony that had defied all laws of a pony's existence by trustily keeping her safe on its back. She'd loved that pony. Her scaredy-cat younger self had been scared of heights, scared of horses, scared of being kicked or falling off or being bitten because when she'd been getting her first riding lessons as a barely upright toddler, she'd fallen off and broken her arm and she hadn't wanted to repeat that experience. Which had left her horribly behind on her riding skills in comparison to other children. Her mentor had tried her hardest, and considering that she'd been getting impatient, little Lexa had thought that not having to ride would be one of the few good things about her sister's first deployment. 

Gustus had fixed that. Yeah. He hadn't forced her onto a horse or onto one of those devils incarnate that ponies usually were, he had taken all the steps back with her, back to groundwork, to getting her to feed and touch the beast and to pick out its hooves, he had held her waist when he'd put her on its back the first time. He'd been there. Every step of the way. Until they had deployed him, too, and she'd begged him to look after her sister. With her eyes threatening to flow over because the prospect of him leaving had made the possibility of Anya never returning so very real, and he had told her to stay strong. 

She had. She had worked her fucking ass off, she had ridden that pony until the blisters on her hands had bled and the muscles in her stomach had cramped, she had walked her little self to the stables and asked for a different ride, she had ridden every horse they'd offered, she'd fallen off, bust her head open, gotten back on, gotten kicked, gotten bitten, but she hadn't backed down. She had ridden herself to exhaustion because she had held on to the belief that if she could just master that skill, it would help both of them come back. And she'd shown them. She'd shown them. She'd shown them right as they had returned, she'd dragged her dangerously exhausted sister to the fields and she'd raced the wind on horseback. And then she'd knelt down sobbing next to her oldest sister having fallen asleep in the grass. 

Gustus had picked her up. Anya's small, skinny body so easily cradled in his big arms he'd had one hand free to wipe Lexa's snotty face, he'd told her she had done well, that he was proud, and then he had walked her home. To her mother and father. He had put Anya onto the sofa and had told them that he was proud. Proud of their daughters. Lexa didn't remember the rest of that conversation because she'd been a spluttering, gasping mess of snot and tears and puffy skin. 

She faced that man. That man she loved. That man she owed half her life to. She faced him with her sword brandished, her lower arm crossing under it to create four perfect ninety-degree angles. To estimate the position of his ribs. So that the blade would go smoothly in between. Just like she had done it before. To others. She faced what was left of him like that. The blood clotting in his beard because he coughed it out with every ravaged breath because a hundred cuts had flayed his being down to the bone. Beyond reassembly. Beyond a chance to heal. Driving her sword through his heart would be mercy. For him, for her, for his suffering, for her suffering having to watch. Having stood and watched. 

Yet, Lexa hesitated. She couldn't put it any other way. She hesitated, blade out, both of them soaked through, rain dripping off of every surface, staring at him. Stalling. Stalling to watch him breathe, to trace every ragged breath from his face twitching in pain as he forced his lungs to fill to the blood splattering out of his mouth as the air got expelled. Because as long as he drew breath, he was still there. Still alive. Still with her, in a way, something was still there. And she loved that something still. No matter the poison, no matter the fucking cup, no matter what, he had never hurt her, never would, he had drank it himself. He had drank it himself. Himself. He had never passed it to her. She'd never been safer, but tradition didn't care for that. Neither did loyalty.