steadyasthewind:

 

_{Growing up she’d seen enough men preparing for battle, or to hunt to know what a weapon generally looked like. Knives and spears were not a rare sight within the village; she wasn’t too naive to presume that this sword was meant for simply cutting sticks. With the size and weight of blade one could easily cause a few bruises to an opponent with only a mere well placed hit by the flat of the blade. This was no toy for small children, it was a killing instrument designed for protection, for strength and yet she could find beauty in the cold steel despite its gruesome purpose, She realized she could view her own reflection on the flat, reflective edge and carefully tilted the sword until the image of her face became clearer.}

_{It was different than looking into the the rippled surface of the river, clearer even. She turned the blade this way and that, playing with the way her face warped on the blade while tiny rainbows sparkled along the steel edge. She couldn’t help but drift into a memory from the summer two years ago, when John had brought a shiny new object for her to see. It had been much smaller than the sword, and far less dense, but the edges were still sharp to the touch, and the surface just as reflective. He’d called it a mirror, well a shard of a mirror, but she hadn’t known the difference nor had she cared for it was new and different than anything she’d ever seen. She’d spent the afternoon looking at her  image, observing the clear reflection of her face for the first time before that became boring and she began playing with how the light refracted on the shard. Then she figured out how to control where the light went, and then that soon became a game of trying to shine the light in John’s eyes or some other target (namely somewhere on her partner’s body).} 

 _{”You are a warrior then.” she deduced as she handed the boy back his sword. Upon first glance she would have never thought him to be a man chosen to protect his people, he was small and stringy, with a petite frame, and she was sure he was much shorter than the average soldier. “How long have you been training for?” she asked with an amused look, already guessing that it hadn’t been for a long time. The awkward way he’d tried to defend himself earlier only proved her theory.} 

A warrior.  Yǒngshì.  If he was alone, Ping might have laughed.  Such a fierce word - one that reminded Ping more of the terrible specter of the Huns that haunted the minds of the recruits, than of the clumsy group of would-be soldiers themselves.  Perhaps Captain Shang was a warrior - he was frightening enough, though rumor had it he was as untested in battle as they - but the rest of them weren’t, and Ping least of all.  "A soldier,“ he agreed, quietly: zhànshì.  Accepting his - or rather, not his, Hua Zhou’s - sword back, Ping carefully slid it back into the oiled sheath at his waist.

"I’ve been training for a few weeks.”  As if deferentially, Ping kept his eyes trained on the neat pile of wood and kindling in the small fire pit Pocahontas has built.  But really, he was embarrassed when made to realize how little effort he had to show for all of that time.  "It’s…it’s hard work.  Our captain - he’s used to this.  His father is a general.  But - farmers, merchants - I think none of the rest of us were taught to expect wartime.“  Ping wanted to squeeze his eyes shut.  By focusing on how abysmally the bulk of the recruits were doing, Ping could feel a little better about his own shortcomings.  Maybe, they would all be butchered together and their failure would be covered by the tragedy.