Motivations, One

Step back. Parry. Step forward. Slice. Thrust. Sidestep. Stab. Again.
 Her mornings seemed always to consist of training. At about nine and a half thousand years old, she couldn’t really afford to let her body fall out of practice. It was the only way to stay young, to stay awake; alive. Even after a morning of rigorous love-making with Ramirez, she could still feel it, still feel the years tugging at her, threatening her youth. Her heart had already failed her once in the past year, as the weeks of rest from her many acquired wounds allowed the years a chance to catch up with her.
 She could feel him watching her, likely having finished his breakfast, now procrastinating his preparations for work. How could she expect them to understand how it was the Elfin body worked? They treated her like a human, unable or unwilling to understand the differences. She would lie in bed, head resting against Ramirez’s chest, listening to his heartbeat. Steady, sure, predictable; the tick of a clock that cannot be wound, doomed to one day stop and never begin again. She envied humans that much.
 But her clock could be wound. Her youth could be prolonged, and had been for nine millennia. SO long as she had a need for it, it would stay. She dared not fall asleep if she could help it, for fear that the simple act of a peaceful sleep would signal her body it was okay to age. She could not let that happen. How would she defend herself if her arms were too weak to raise a sword? How would she care for the ones she loved?
 One last thrust, a bead of sweat arching from the edge of her nose and splitting on the blade of the obsidian rapier she practiced with. Killian understood. It thrived on being held in her hand, even if air was all it sliced. It grew impatient should she set it aside for too long, knowing what it would mean for itself if Rhia grew old. No heir had presented himself as being worthy to weild the weapon. Rhia’s was the only hand that could hold it. Without her, Killian would be lost, left in some dark corner to collect dust forever more.
 There had been one heir; the boy had inherited the precise make-up of Rhia’s Drow magick. Killian had resonated with that boy’s aura, and it had grown eager at the prospect of finally being passed on, to new hands that might be a little bit more blood-thirsty than Rhia’s now were. But the king had killed that boy. Killian had desired nothing more than to pick that man apart, layer by layer, to feed on his spirit, and the weapon had kept Rhia’s anger and hurt alive for fifty years to achieve it. But, alas, the king had died by other means, and his son now sat on the throne. It frustrated Killian to now serve the heir of the man who’d stolen the life of Killian’s new master. But it had little choice. Besides, it had tasted plenty of flesh in the past year; it should not complain.
 “You’ll be late,” Rhia said as she stepped back inside Ramirez handed her a towel to wipe the sweat from her face, and simply smiled. Rhia couldn’t help but smile back. That pure heart, smiling at her; her reason for staying young; it warmed her own wounded heart, brought back a little light to a place swamped by darkness. “Go on, silly man. We both have work to do.”
 He chuckled and kissed her cheek. “Be careful tonight,” he said, then turned and left the kitchen.
 “You, as well,” she said softly, and watched after him until he disappeared around the corner.