XXI
He moves quickly for such a large man. A thick pillar of muscle and heavy bone, he's nevertheless light on his feet, sometimes delicate as a soap bubble wafting on air currents. Ballah feints right, lunges left, saber-staff coming within millimeters of Kylo's knee. A warning cry rises in Rey's throat and catches on her tongue because he's already leaping away, turning in midair to land in a crouch, exploding forward in a rush that catches the smaller Knight off-guard.
There's a flurry of black robes, a heavy grunt as Ballah hits the deck, and the fight is over.
She folds her arms so she can't clap, but it's a close thing. His speed, grace, power…she's fought with him and with him, but each time his skill catches her short. Breathless. Still, she can't stop her heart from heaving a great sigh of relief before relaxing in her chest. Her calm clashes with Kylo's elation; it was a hard fight and he won it well. He stands tall, rolling cramped shoulders in a way that accentuates his ludicrous biceps.
He's proud of his victory, preening because she was there to see it. Rey swallows with a tongue suddenly dry and startles when her sparring partner speaks.
"Are you ready?" Meela, her voice harshly modulated by the helmet she wears, twirls her saber, hulking and heavy as a machete. The sole woman of the Knights of Ren, she's fierce and thirsty for battle, restless in action and at rest. Her feet slide across the floor, taking up the first in a form Rey now knows to identify as Djem So. For an aggressive woman, she guards herself like a lioness and bullies the Force to be her shield.
The saber Rey has used since boarding the Revenge is uncomfortably familiar in her hands, purring catlike to life, licking its lips for the fight to come. Its red light spills over Rey's face like a rush of blood, of heat, of vengeance.
She begins in Shii-Cho, the only form she really knows, instantly outclassed by Meela's superior strength. Hammered again and again by her opponent, driven to the edge of the arena, Rey blocks and pushes and searches for an opening.
Kylo's watching. Oh, he may look like he's taking a drink or wiping down his sweaty shoulders, but he's watching her. Dark eyes tracking every shift of her feet, every clash of their sabers. When Rey twirls out of a tight spot, he smiles in that shy, crooked way of his. When Meela presses, his brow knits as though he's worried Meela might actually hurt her. It's ridiculous; this is just a—
A red line of agony slices across her thigh; Rey gasps with pain and falls back, stumbling across the training field.
"Pay attention," Meela stalks after her, not bothering with the flourishes the other Knights affect. She's cold, calm, and deadly intent. A cold trickle of fear drizzles down Rey's throat. Even if she doesn't really intend to hurt her, one slip of that saber is all it would take.
"Fine," Rey snarls, reaching for rage to supplement her fear. Forget forms, she tells herself, when did you ever need them?
Careless, free, Rey lunges forward. She knows enough now not to use her staff forms, but her speed, agility, and flexibility all suit her well.
Meela's fast too, but her armor weighs her down. Rey leaps over a slash aimed for her knees and stabs down with her blade; Meela meets it with her saber but the downward momentum drives her to her knees. She thrashes out with a booted foot that catches Rey below her wounded thigh; she yells and traps Meela's arm in a lock-tight grip.
Hold, twist, relentless as a feral dog. She'll give, she'll drop the saber, or Rey will break her arm. She can feel it, the bones so delicate, like any human's—is Meela human? Rey's never seen her face—and Rey knows just how much force it takes to break bone. Memories of her own arm giving way with a wet, tearing snap, of a trader's cheekbone caving into his own face at the end of her staff, flood her with shame.
It makes her stronger.
Meela throws her whole body backwards, slamming Rey to the floor, hip jammed against her throat. Rey doesn't give, not for an instant. The saber falls atop them, almost burning off Rey's nose; there's a nauseating stench of burnt hair and melting durasteel as it catches between her head and Meela's helmet.
"Enough!" Kylo's voice reaches them dimly. They're drowning together at the bottom of a red-hot sea of emotion, neither willing nor able to hear.
"I said enough!" he hauls her upright, tossing her so she skids along the floor. Meela lies where she fell, still clutching her saber, letting it scorch a gash in the deck.
The room is silent save for the crackling scatter of sparking saber on cold metal.
Rey pushes upright on arms weak as rubber and sprints from the room.