Chapter 4: The Efficiency of Pants

"Till I Collapse" by Eminem

Try as I might, I will never stop writing Nesta fighting, kicking, and punching her way through an Illyrian war camp. It was just meant to be.

Summary: Nesta finally wants to train and does she ever.

Nesta liked to watch him train.

It wasn't for the muscles that threatened to rip out of his chest, if he was wearing one, or the bronze gleam that made even the most celibate sweat. It wasn't the hair that spilled from his tie, or the way his chest moved rapidly, up and down, to compete with his racing heartbeat. It wasn't even for the smirk she saw dance its way along his face when he noticed her wandering gaze.

She wasn't immune to male attractiveness, not when that male was 6 feet of sweat and allure, but it wasn't the reason he had caught her attention.

Nesta watched him for the way he moved his feet. The way they moved to counter attacks, instill fear, and prove he was the greater, the faster, the stronger. The different weapons he chose to use, from his glimmering sword, polished to rival the sheen of diamonds, to bow and arrows, sharp enough to cut one.

Most of the time, he used nothing but bare fists and bruising limbs. She liked those days the most.

Strength was earned, embedded in the hardworking and the brave, and she wanted to be brave, fast, strong, and mighty. So, she observed someone who was.

They may have joked about her focused looks, her rapt attention, the scrunch of her eyebrows as she considered the convenience of knives, but she did not dare look away.

Nesta yearned to know the ins and outs of the greatest weapon she'd ever gained, something that rivaled the strength of her mind and the tenacity of her will.

They would think what they would, they could laugh all they wanted, but Nesta watched Cassian for more than just his pretty face.

The pants made her knees tremble. Made her skin itch far more than the scratchy fabric of her gowns. But Nesta had made up her mind, and it was too late to change either. She had little time to argue with herself and she might not have won that battle.

For far too long Nesta had wandered aimlessly in the confines of her room. Being trapped in her body wasn't enough and she had decided to trap her mind too. But just like everything else in her life, the silence bored her immensely. Even the walls seemed to scream, get out.

Cut somewhere between pride and propriety, the pants stared at her mockingly, lifted an eyebrow to her clear disdain. Putting on pants was the first challenge she'd conquer. The first in a long line of sacrifices. It was all she had anyway.

Nesta walked towards the sounds of laughter, tried to ignore the fidgety movements of her hands. Refused to grasp the fabric pulling at her legs. She was a new and changed being, she could be anything. Pants would not change who she was or what she wanted.

The laughter quieted as she made her way to the dining room, stood in front of the table as if she had owned the very ground it stood on. She swore even the birds stopped chirping, something she learned to ignore even if it did make the guilt creep up her spine.

They all looked at her, curious eyes hidden on friendly faces. Some part of her hoped they didn't say anything, didn't ask why her sudden need to change made itself so prominent. She didn't know what she'd say if they had.

Her gaze landed on the one she needed, wanted if she were being honest, but Nesta had far too many things to accomplish before she acknowledged that crusade.

Cassian sat, a plate full of food in front of him. The butter knife stood for the ready, waiting to eat or to slaughter. She knew he had mastered both. Picking a fight was the last thing on her mind, but she wasn't against finishing one if he favored more of their verbal sparring.

Nesta sidled up to him, in front and ready. Strong like her stubborn will. He could smile, mock her if he wanted to, but she was done playing games she couldn't win.

"Train me." She spoke, a quiet demand to go along the stoic nature of her face.

"Really?" He asked, eyebrows raised and curiosity blooming. His back straightened at her silent indignation. The tilt of his lips enraged her just enough to continue.

"I'm not wearing pants for nothing." She said, coldly. It was the only response she could muster with her anxiety consuming her.

Cassian stood up, towering over her small frame. One of his intimidation tactics no doubt, but she wasn't afraid of him, couldn't be even if she tried. The gentle smile that grew on his face told her he knew it too. It made her so annoyingly angry, she wanted to punch him.

She'd get the chance, too, as he braced his arm forward, leading her toward her next defiant endeavor.

"50 more."

Nesta had to resist the urge to punch him in the face. She wanted to refuse simply because she was tired. Any more punches and her arms might have fallen off. The act of repressing her incessant need to roll her eyes became a challenge even she couldn't win.

But losing was not an option, even if this wasn't a game.

So, she continued, punch after punch, weapon after weapon. Feeling the days drain into weeks. Every day in the training room, sparring and fighting and learning. She had come to enjoy it even, look forward to the throbbing, ache of her muscles.

"Again." She demanded.

"Again." She yelled.

"Again." She begged.

Every day, until the sound of her rushed breathing and her racing heartbeat drowned out the screams.

She saw the fear, sensed it, smelled it. She had lived in it all her life. They looked at her as If she had grown four limbs. A rare oddity on display for their amusement.

Nesta was not interested in amusing anyone.

They had come here as they always had, to check on progress and deliver orders. But Nesta was fed up with their act of defiance. They would not defy her.

"What's it going to take?" She questioned, facing Lord Devlon as her equal, a favor on her part.

The amount of times they yelled and screamed did nothing to persuade the Illyrians to train their women, didn't give a chance for those that wanted to.

There was something about being trapped that made the ringing in her ears get louder and louder. Knowing that there were women who could fly but were cemented to the ground made her anger grow. Knowing that they grew up with warriors only to be shunned by them made her rage simmer.

"You are not Illyrian, you cannot command us." He spit.

"Then make me Illyrian!" She yelled, ice and wrath consuming the grey of her eyes.

He didn't mock her like she thought he would, didn't laugh in her face. Only looked and contemplated. His stance calm and sedentary.

"Women can't do those sorts of things. They are meant for something else entirely."

"Our women are meant for something else entirely."

He tried to make her understand, to give up this reckless and ignorant endeavor. But she was not the one who lacked information and he was not the one caged.

"I'll fight them all. One by one."

She stepped closer to him, to his guards, to his warriors. Made herself known, present, aware. Nesta would not let them look at her like she was benighted.

"Send me your strongest men, your fastest, and I will still win."

She needed them to know, needed them to understand. The fear of falling was achingly real for those who could not fly.

War had always been a bird too far away to catch, and the brutality was something she had never wanted. But standing in the middle of the arena, Nesta finally understood the idea. It was the calm, so still and silent that even her heartbeat seemed too loud for this place.

Maybe that was the reason war favored no heartbeats at all.

She stood in the middle, waiting for the battle. The fight was already inside of her.

Nesta might have wondered why she decided she wanted to train all those months ago, may have even called herself insane. But now she knew. She had the choice, she'd give others the same.

"Are you sure about this?" Cassian said warily.

He didn't voice any derision on her choice. He respected her decision to fight, warrior to warrior. Still she always sensed his gaze when she wasn't looking. The sweet, bitter protection she shook off with every effort. Cassian had to know what it'd take.

"Do you doubt me?" She said, ice in her veins. Nesta didn't want to know why it mattered so much, why she wanted his approval.

"No. I have every faith that you can kill them all, but the control is something I question."

He looked cautious, but not towards her, not to her power or her strength. He wasn't afraid of her, couldn't be if he tried. Cassian knew something about the anger. The way the all-consuming rage did not stifle until everyone had been beaten and pained.

Until the only pain left was the one on the inside.

He stared at her and Nesta tried to look away, but his eyes were a song that pulled her in and did not let go. She could not pull away.

"Knock them dead, but don't kill them."

Don't kill his family, he meant. Even if he was bastard born, tossed to the wolves before he could even fend for himself, he still loved his people. She'd protect them for that reason alone.

But not the ones who dared to touch her.

She stomped towards them, marched with an army of grace and grandeur. Breathed them all in, the fear, the doubt, the rage. She feasted on it.

They looked at her with mockery, bravado even she knew could crack beneath her fingertips. They had made a deal, and she did not lose. On the contrary, she had gained the whole world.

"My prize?" She asked.

Nesta didn't have to tell them what she wanted, didn't need to show them the aim of her ferocity. It clearly written in the lines of her face, in the fire of her eyes.

"You can have my son." He answered. An advantageous proposal, but only for him. Strong alliances made strong sons. She wasn't interested in stocking an army.

Lord Devlon held out his arms, pride glowing from the stiffness of his spine. As if his son was the greatest gift he could ever bestow on a woman, who longed for nothing but a man at her side and a warmth in her bed. Nesta wanted nothing of the sort.

"Your son. I should be so flattered." She said without an ounce of praise or conviction.

The purse of her lips and the steel of her irises told them she was not so forgiving, the way their chauvinistic tendencies and their lustful gazes saw nothing but meat.

"I don't prefer weak men."

Her gaze traveled around the room, around the men she defeated with the flick of her wrist. Gone, like the pride they held in their bodies.

"I want the girls. Trained. I'll even do it myself."

She could almost smell the fear coming from the slow tilt of her lips. A witch, a bitch, and everything in between.

"Impossible." He sneered. "They will never be as strong as you."

Maybe it was the darkness painting the sky in night or the shadow that formed along Nesta's face, but she saw Lord Devlon brace himself for the fight. Stepping back as if he had touched fire and it had burned his dignity. The softness of her voice made its way across the corridor, alighting the room in flames and fury.

"Neither will you."

They may have grimaced from her appearance alone, but Nesta could only feel the sweet tang of victory. It was enough.

Her stride to the door was as inviting as a viper slithering away. The seductive rush of triumph was too exhilarating to stop and Nesta wanted to feel it all. She wanted to see them try and stop her.

"Bring the women to the rings." She commanded, voice booming like thunder. "Training starts now."

I'm so sleep deprived, finals suck, so this may or may not make any sense. But I mean I hope you enjoyed it, I liked writing it. But anyways more to come, and more fluff! but also more angst. Not sure which one's next….