Their blades clash, locking against one another, metal edges sparking. She presses against him, leaning forward, then she pulls back and dances, locking with Razor's blade again and again. Razor finds himself dancing backwards, within a hair's breath of finding Ophelia's blade ripping through his armor. What worries him more, is that she isn't smiling. Her look is serious and deadly and that worries him far more then her normally homicidal face.
He winces as the blade cuts through his armor, a spray of blood flying into the air. It is sudden and unexpected. The wound stings, badly, but it is not as bad as it seems to feel. Light really...
Then she cuts again, on his left shoulder. Then his right arm, left side of his waist, right above the knee, the movements going faster and cutting more but never worrying themselves deeper. Each wound a stinging lash as if punctuating her anger towards him. Then the blade is suddenly moving towards his skull, heading towards his right eye and he feels himself too sluggish to move...
The alarm had sounded and Razor had stared at it, his eyes blank and red, breathing ragged as Ophelia's hooves gripped his waist, biting down into his ribs. He hadn't been able to move throughout the night due to Ophelia's death grip and when nauseous in the morning and trying to get up she wouldn't let him go. He'd even whispered that he needed to go to the bathroom and very clearly and audibly she'd said, "no."
He'd tried to debate her, rationally, but she had simply said that one word and squeezed his side even further, crushing his ribs against her. In the end after half an hour trying to hold it in, he'd vomited against the side of his pillow, his snout almost buried against the stuff. He'd been angry but he hadn't been able to say much of anything or move really, not with the way she held him.
So the alarm had blared and he'd simply stared, breathing lightly, his sleep not very restful. "Aren't you going to get that?" she'd said. Very clearly, close against his ear.
He'd turned to look at her and she'd been fully awake, and not at all smiling. "Get up," she'd said, her eyes a stronger radiance then normal. "You need to shower."
She'd released him then and he'd thought he'd get some privacy to shower, except she followed him, pushing him into the stall roughly and turning on the water to steaming hot. They'd simply stared at each other then, his heart beating rapidly against his chest as she'd stared, darkly. It had been like that for several minutes with the water beating upon their bodies when she'd suddenly shoved him against the wall none too gently and pressed her muzzle against his mouth, invading his privacy.
Then, like the night before, she'd made love to him. Quiet, demanding, rough. Her pressure and strength had been frightening to say the least and not for the least bit lacking in pain. It hurt. To make love to her. But she'd persisted, her hips rubbing against his until despite the pain, he'd still released himself inside her and then she'd leaned in against him and simply held him, tightly. Her hooves had dug into his shoulders and she'd held him as the water had washed against their bodies.
"Don't dare do that again," she'd said against his ear, breaking the silence after several minutes. "Ever."
He'd uttered not a word as she broke her contact and waited for him to exit before following. She'd shadowed him then, even going as far as to change in the men's barracks. While he'd protested at first, she'd quickly slammed her blade into the floor and growled, "is there a reason you don't want me around?"
It had come out more as a challenge then a question and he'd turned away, obliging her. None of the stallions dared question her either and went about their business in the background, albeit a bit quicker with more noise and slip ups then normal. Their desire to leave self evident with the loud clopping of their hooves and rushed whisperings. In the end he'd been the only one to remain with her, slowly dawning his armor. He couldn't get away from her anyways, so why rush? This sour feeling had persisted through the rest of the day and even now persist as that blade comes near his eye, and stops.
He lowers his blade slowly as she holds hers only centimeters from his eye and sighs. Her blade slashes his right arm across the inside of the elbow sending a stabbing pain through his body. "We're not done here," she hisses.
"Yes, we are," he hisses, tired of this dangerous game and mood.
Her blade comes against his throat, pressing against it, a trickle of blood being drawn. "If I was your enemy..."
"But you're not!" he growls. "You're my wife! Or you're supposed to be!" He remains quiet for a moment, staring at his reflection against the blade. He sighs, turning away. "If you are truly so angered by my presence then finish it. I will understand. Only... promise me one thing."
"I don't need to promise you anything!" she growls.
"Promise me!" he barks, the other mares and stallions suddenly stopping their own exercises to look. It has been like this all day, with only Miria daring to give any other type of look besides fear. Ophelia is silent for a moment and nods.
"What?" Her eyes are narrowed, her posture tense.
He sighs. "That you'll take care of our daughter."
She is silent for a moment, the blade drawn back, quivering. "We don't have a daughter," she says sharply.
"We will," Razor says, almost in a whisper. "Luna has said it is so."
Ophelia stares, her left eye twitching, mouth agape. It closes slowly, teeth snapping. Then she starts laughing. It is a loud noise, echoing through the yard, making several of the mares and stallions about them scuffle about quietly, whispers starting to echo through them. It continues for what seems like an eternity when she turns to him, wiping tears from her eyes.
"You can't be serious Razor?" she says, still chuckling.
He remains silent. Glaring.
Placing hooves at her hips she walks towards him on her hind legs. "Look Razor," she says. "I like you. A lot. But there's no way we can have kids. You and I... you know... those things won't lock. Sides, can you imagine me as mother? I'd be..."
He takes both her hooves into his talons, turning her so she looks him in the eye. "You'll be a good mother," he states. "I know it's inside you."
She stares, the mirth dying away in her mouth, her eyes narrowing, a glint of fear and uncertainty in them. "You're serious?"
He nods. "Dead serious." He holds her hooves close, running a claw over them. "I know I acted... brashly yesterday. But I was unprepared. I..."
"You're unprepared?!" she yells. "What about me? This thing is going to be growing in me and now you're saying I'm going to have some dragon child! How?"
"I don't know how!" he yells back. "I ran away thinking it wasn't mine! I couldn't deal with it! And..."
Her face is suddenly inches from his own, her blade pressing just under his jaw. "You ran away?" she hisses darkly under her breath.
"I..." He swallows, realizing his words have slipped out before he could take a hold of them and now he can't take them back. "Yes," he says, looking away. "I... I was afraid."
"So rather then tell me, you ran away? Like a coward with his tail between his legs?"
"Yes!" he snaps back. "I thought you'd been sleeping around with another colt! I didn't see how you could have a baby with me and jumped to a conclusion and..."
"Leave," she says, her words cold and dark.
"Ophelia. I..."
"Leave. Leave before I take your head."
He feels a shiver run down his spine, a fear gripping hold of him. She is not lying. Quietly he walks past her, shoulders slumped and still bleeding, the pain ripping through him. He looks back towards her one more time, feeling her cold demeanor and turns away, a single tear slipping down his cheek. What has he done?
When she is sure he is gone she allows her shoulders to slump, her sword nearly slipping from her hoof. "How dare he?" she whispers. "How dare he?"
"Ophelia," says a voice behind her.
"What?!" she screams, the blade coming up with her rage almost immediately. Miria bats it aside with little thought.
"You never were much good when you were angry or depressed. Funny how I never recognized that before."
She does not answer, simply glaring at her sister instead.
"Ophelia," Miria says quietly. "Go home."
"You can't..."
"Go home," she says flatly. It is the same cold tone Ophelia had just used on Razor. Somehow fitting, she thinks.
She lets her shoulders slump and heads back to the changing room, going into the proper room this time and slowly unclasp her armor, taking her time in removing it. She doesn't feel any particular need in heading home. He won't be there after all. He won't be there.
It finally dawns on her and she begins to cry, the tears finally breaking free. "Why?" she says again and again. "Why?!" These are the words she repeats, heard by those outside, but unanswered.