[Henry wishes that he had Edward's ability to see into a person -- he cannot tell whether Maketh is like him, in that physical sensation grounds him and allows him to gain control over spiralling, wild emotions, or whether it is a more sinister desire. He'll never forget that she once used death as a form of self-punishment.
Still, he makes a quick grab for her, looking to gain a hold.]
[She lunges at him, grabbing for his hand. If he won't fight then she'll hurt him until he's angry again. It can't be done through brute force, fine, that's just fine, she'll play dirty. Twist his hand until something breaks.
It's better this way. Getting everything out. In the Academy, she'd seen the other cadets spar until they were bloody, left empty in the wake of it. There was clarity in that pain, brutal and perfect.
Things need to be clear. They're not.
But pain? That's simple. And Maketh has always been able to take a hit.]
[She does not know what she is asking for. She has never seen him really lose his temper. Nor will she, ever, if Henry has his way.]
Make me.
[He does not let her keep her grip, delivering a strike of his fist directly to her median nerve on her forearm to force her to reflexively release her hold, at which point he bodyslams her to knock her off balance and give himself an opening.
He continues on the offensive, hoping to wear her down faster than he currently is.
In a swift motion he grabs the outside of her left hand – including her little and ring fingers – with his left hand and pulling it in arc towards his left hip, creates a wrist lock. He grabs under her elbow on the same arm with his right hand, pointing it upwards, and then drives her elbow down to the floor, throwing her down.]
[This time she goes down hard, breath knocked straight from her lungs. Henry's too damn strong, he's better trained and faster than she is. No way around that. The only time she had the advantage was when she fought dirty, played a trick that he didn't see coming. But right now she's unarmed and away from her guns. Henry even kicked their blades away.
Maketh jerks back to her feet, wheezing. She can feel her hands trembling with the force of it, sweat running through her hair and down her back. It hurts to breathe. Hurts to move too fast. She'll push past that. That was always a talent of hers, ignoring things that were inconvenient.
Fine. Fine. Remember the Academy. Go for his eyes, attack pressure points and any area of weakness. Win by any means necessary.
Make me, he said. Taunting her. He doesn't think she can do it.
Maketh grits her teeth and lunges again. If she gets in close, maybe she can knock him down and they're grapple. Henry is stronger, but Maketh thinks she might just be crueler up close.]
[Henry doesn't avoid her lunge because he knows he has the weight advantage, and the force of it alone is not enough to break his stance. The impact will help his aims more than aversion will, or so he thinks. He merely grabs both of her shoulders and gives her a hard shove back.
She'll keep coming, until she can't. The harder part is wearing out her rage and mitigating the harm from her trickery.
He cannot call himself all that successful at the latter.]
[The pace is brutal. Maketh knows it can't last, knows that she'll falter before he does if it continues like this. So when he grabs her, Maketh digs her heels in and pushes back.
The moment she's close enough, she goes to kick him again. He didn't see it coming the first time and he's allowed her to get close. Something must give if she's going to win. The possibility that she might not is unacceptable.]
[This time Henry turns his hips and lets her kick meet his thigh instead, huffing his displeasure at the attempt, his eyes narrowing.]
Again?!
[As if to discourage her from repeating tactics, he uses one of her own moves against her and headbutts her. Such blows won't work twice. That, he hopes, is clear.]
[Maketh staggers back with a curse, black dots flooding her vision. At least he didn't try to break her nose. She feels herself shaking, knows full well she can't maintain the pace for much longer. Not strong enough, not fast enough.
Not good enough.
Maketh wheezes, shaking her head to clear her vision. It doesn't help much. Her chest hurts when she breathes.] Always.
[Under any other circumstance he would cheer her tenacity, but right now, on the receiving end of them, he doesn't appreciate her choice of tactics.
When Maketh lunges, Henry grabs her right arm with both of his hands and pulls her to his right side; he then steps behind her right leg with his right leg, grabs hold of her left side with his right hand, and throws her over his right hip.
She is flagging. The end, he thinks, is in sight, though he does not rule her out just yet.]
[She goes down harder than before, messes up the recovery and ends up landing on her bad shoulder. There's pain then, sharp and sickly. Even more than that she's feeling the exhaustion creeping in, that wheeze in her chest and the way her throat hurts on the exhale.
Damn it all. He's winning.
Maketh pushes herself up with a snarl, grits her teeth and powers through the ache. She's fine, this is nothing, get up, soldier, get up!]
Is--is that all you can manage?
[If she sneers at him just right, then maybe he'll just knock her out and she won't have to think for a while. That would be nice, she thinks.]
[Henry retorts as he steps forward, grabbing Maketh's right arm by the muscle with his left hand and grabbing the outside of her left arm with his right, lower down. He pushes her right arm back and pulls her left arm forward, to put her into the optimal grappling position.]
[And now they're grappling. Damn it all. But the simple fact is that while Henry might be the stronger of them, Maketh has been proved meaner when it comes to fighting. She doesn't try to break the hold and instead boxes his ears, knowing it's going to hurt.]
[Henry winces at the burst of pain, but suppresses his flinch. Evidently Maketh has no idea what it is like to take a lance to the helmet at full tilt. There is no comparison.
Were it a real fight, he would follow his intact grip though and cause a dislocation by sliding his left hand below her right elbow, gripping tightly and pulling it towards him as his right hand pushed her left arm back. Or he would use the opening of her high reach to reach under her arms, clasp his grip behind her back and lift her to his left side, turning with the lift, then drop her onto his knee and break her back--
But he does not wish to do Maketh actual harm, even if in her anger she is trying to rupture his eardrums in addition to his loins. The split second of consideration is merely him purging his annoyance.
(His temperament is perhaps not the best fit for what he is trying to accomplish here.)
Instead, ears still ringing, Henry lifts her left arm, ducks his head under, and pulls her arm onto his neck while dropping his left hand to grab the bend of her left leg. He throws her over his back.]
[Useless. Utterly useless, she lost. She fought and failed in front of someone who matters, and it--
Maketh shudders hard and grabs his hand, though doesn't stand. She's shaking too hard, on the verge of crying and furious at herself for it. This should not be happening. She's better than this.]
She's gone.
[It comes out small. Maketh swallows hard, tries to blink her vision clear. Stars, she must look pathetic.]
[Henry squeezes Maketh's hand, then kneels himself. He places his free hand on the back of her head and strokes her hair. When he speaks, it is gently.]
Keep going on. But you must allow yourself to grieve.'Tis never weak to feel.
[This whole thing is foolish - this moment, her reaction to it, everything but Henry's patience in the aftermath. He's being kind despite everything she'd done to him. Maketh shudders, resting her head against his shoulder. Maybe she can just hold there for a moment, just a fucking moment, and when she finally looks up, then everything will be okay again. She'll be in control of herself.]
I--it hurts.
[And she feels foolish for admitting that. Who was she to think Hadriel would allow this to stand, that she - a traitor to the Empire, a failure to the officer corps - could ever have this? That someone like Lilith, strong and vibrant and wild would ever want to stay at her side?
And now she's spent far too long on the training mats attempting to cause bodily harm to the man she calls brother.
What a messy. What a bloody mess.]
I'm sorry, I--I didn't mean to hit you like that. I shouldn't have done that.
[As the adrenaline and focus of the fight fade, the ache returns to prominence. But that is irrelevant. Bodies heal quickly and easily enough in a way that wounds to the soul do not. He knows.]
It shall hurt for some time. There is no escaping that. But... [Henry sighs, still stroking her head.] But you need not bear it alone, Maketh. Nor must you bear it well every minute of the day. Let go. Those who care for you will gladly comfort you.
[He would know. The death of one and the absence of another. Oh, he would know. Maketh bites back a sob, squeezing his hand tight. She's tired all of a sudden, tired and sore and sick of this whole thing. It doesn't help to cry but her eyes are watering already. Stars above. Lilith only went home. She hasn't died. It's better like this.
It's better this way. If she says it enough, then it will be true.]
[She makes a rough sound but doesn't start crying. At least, not too much. At least he's still there. Henry has always been at her side, he's always been strong when Maketh is not. Family.] I, uh--should not have hit you like that.
[He feels a small pang of guilt at that. Getting to his feet, Henry then hauls Maketh up too.]
...I cannot stand the thought of you alone after this. [He tells her, before he insists:] Once you are done here let us return to your apartment, where you might pack a bag and then bring it up to mine. You should stay with me.
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[Henry wishes that he had Edward's ability to see into a person -- he cannot tell whether Maketh is like him, in that physical sensation grounds him and allows him to gain control over spiralling, wild emotions, or whether it is a more sinister desire. He'll never forget that she once used death as a form of self-punishment.
Still, he makes a quick grab for her, looking to gain a hold.]
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[She lunges at him, grabbing for his hand. If he won't fight then she'll hurt him until he's angry again. It can't be done through brute force, fine, that's just fine, she'll play dirty. Twist his hand until something breaks.
It's better this way. Getting everything out. In the Academy, she'd seen the other cadets spar until they were bloody, left empty in the wake of it. There was clarity in that pain, brutal and perfect.
Things need to be clear. They're not.
But pain? That's simple. And Maketh has always been able to take a hit.]
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Make me.
[He does not let her keep her grip, delivering a strike of his fist directly to her median nerve on her forearm to force her to reflexively release her hold, at which point he bodyslams her to knock her off balance and give himself an opening.
He continues on the offensive, hoping to wear her down faster than he currently is.
In a swift motion he grabs the outside of her left hand – including her little and ring fingers – with his left hand and pulling it in arc towards his left hip, creates a wrist lock. He grabs under her elbow on the same arm with his right hand, pointing it upwards, and then drives her elbow down to the floor, throwing her down.]
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Maketh jerks back to her feet, wheezing. She can feel her hands trembling with the force of it, sweat running through her hair and down her back. It hurts to breathe. Hurts to move too fast. She'll push past that. That was always a talent of hers, ignoring things that were inconvenient.
Fine. Fine. Remember the Academy. Go for his eyes, attack pressure points and any area of weakness. Win by any means necessary.
Make me, he said. Taunting her. He doesn't think she can do it.
Maketh grits her teeth and lunges again. If she gets in close, maybe she can knock him down and they're grapple. Henry is stronger, but Maketh thinks she might just be crueler up close.]
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She'll keep coming, until she can't. The harder part is wearing out her rage and mitigating the harm from her trickery.
He cannot call himself all that successful at the latter.]
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The moment she's close enough, she goes to kick him again. He didn't see it coming the first time and he's allowed her to get close. Something must give if she's going to win. The possibility that she might not is unacceptable.]
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Again?!
[As if to discourage her from repeating tactics, he uses one of her own moves against her and headbutts her. Such blows won't work twice. That, he hopes, is clear.]
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Not good enough.
Maketh wheezes, shaking her head to clear her vision. It doesn't help much. Her chest hurts when she breathes.] Always.
[Fight to win. She lunges again.]
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When Maketh lunges, Henry grabs her right arm with both of his hands and pulls her to his right side; he then steps behind her right leg with his right leg, grabs hold of her left side with his right hand, and throws her over his right hip.
She is flagging. The end, he thinks, is in sight, though he does not rule her out just yet.]
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Damn it all. He's winning.
Maketh pushes herself up with a snarl, grits her teeth and powers through the ache. She's fine, this is nothing, get up, soldier, get up!]
Is--is that all you can manage?
[If she sneers at him just right, then maybe he'll just knock her out and she won't have to think for a while. That would be nice, she thinks.]
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How much longer can you stand?
[Henry retorts as he steps forward, grabbing Maketh's right arm by the muscle with his left hand and grabbing the outside of her left arm with his right, lower down. He pushes her right arm back and pulls her left arm forward, to put her into the optimal grappling position.]
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[And now they're grappling. Damn it all. But the simple fact is that while Henry might be the stronger of them, Maketh has been proved meaner when it comes to fighting. She doesn't try to break the hold and instead boxes his ears, knowing it's going to hurt.]
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Were it a real fight, he would follow his intact grip though and cause a dislocation by sliding his left hand below her right elbow, gripping tightly and pulling it towards him as his right hand pushed her left arm back. Or he would use the opening of her high reach to reach under her arms, clasp his grip behind her back and lift her to his left side, turning with the lift, then drop her onto his knee and break her back--
But he does not wish to do Maketh actual harm, even if in her anger she is trying to rupture his eardrums in addition to his loins. The split second of consideration is merely him purging his annoyance.
(His temperament is perhaps not the best fit for what he is trying to accomplish here.)
Instead, ears still ringing, Henry lifts her left arm, ducks his head under, and pulls her arm onto his neck while dropping his left hand to grab the bend of her left leg. He throws her over his back.]
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Get up, soldier. Get up or die.
She tries. It doesn't work. Her shoulder gives out and she ends up braced on her hands and knees, swearing at the floor.]
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Once her swearing comes to an end, he stops before her and bends, extending his hand in a wordless offer of help.
He'd like to think she knows it's over now, but there is a small chance that she might try to break his fingers instead. He'll take that risk anyway.]
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Maketh shudders hard and grabs his hand, though doesn't stand. She's shaking too hard, on the verge of crying and furious at herself for it. This should not be happening. She's better than this.]
She's gone.
[It comes out small. Maketh swallows hard, tries to blink her vision clear. Stars, she must look pathetic.]
What--what am I supposed to do?
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Keep going on. But you must allow yourself to grieve.'Tis never weak to feel.
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I--it hurts.
[And she feels foolish for admitting that. Who was she to think Hadriel would allow this to stand, that she - a traitor to the Empire, a failure to the officer corps - could ever have this? That someone like Lilith, strong and vibrant and wild would ever want to stay at her side?
And now she's spent far too long on the training mats attempting to cause bodily harm to the man she calls brother.
What a messy. What a bloody mess.]
I'm sorry, I--I didn't mean to hit you like that. I shouldn't have done that.
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It matters not. You are forgiven all the same.
[As the adrenaline and focus of the fight fade, the ache returns to prominence. But that is irrelevant. Bodies heal quickly and easily enough in a way that wounds to the soul do not. He knows.]
It shall hurt for some time. There is no escaping that. But... [Henry sighs, still stroking her head.] But you need not bear it alone, Maketh. Nor must you bear it well every minute of the day. Let go. Those who care for you will gladly comfort you.
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It's better this way. If she says it enough, then it will be true.]
I--I'm sorry--!
[For a great many things, she is sorry.]
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[Henry does not promise that all shall be well again, but he remains a solid presence for Maketh to lean on as long as she needs him.]
You can and will survive this, sister. I promise.
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[She quips a smile. It's weak but it is there.]
I was a--always pragmatic in this sort of thing.
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I pray that you refrain in the future. I do plan to have children.
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[She takes a breath and lets it go.]
Would you mind helping me up? My shoulder is--bothering me.
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[He feels a small pang of guilt at that. Getting to his feet, Henry then hauls Maketh up too.]
...I cannot stand the thought of you alone after this. [He tells her, before he insists:] Once you are done here let us return to your apartment, where you might pack a bag and then bring it up to mine. You should stay with me.
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