The coldest eyes and the cruellest hands
Dedicated to Pao.
At Spring they practiced on the tops of buildings, in high winds that still had the bite of winter in their breath. She spent nearly all her time in those spars on the ground, beaten black and blue, wielding a blade meant for a full grown man and not at all for a little girl like herself. He would never help her up, electing instead to sit by the edge and smoke to the cityscape as she struggled with her own weakness.
They would come to the beach at summer, sparring in the sand or among the rocks or just within the water. The mystery of the waves ate of her blood, her sweat and her vomit, but could take nothing of his.
He would be gone most of autumn, leaving her to keep the house. She would rake up all the falling leaves, take a running jump into the pile, and then rake them all up again for another round. Sometimes she'd fall asleep among them and wake up in her bed. It surprised her how he'd always carry her in rather than scold her or leave her there.
It was hard to recall what they used to do during the winter because it was in November that he'd been killed. All she had was the memory of the chill of death on his skin and the sightless light of his eyes.